Helping dad (Foxy Lady and CougarGirl)

Ruth’s a great kid. I’m so proud of the way she’s turned out. We both are, her mom and me. Take the other day. She was looking thoughtful as she ate her cereal, so I asked her what she was thinking. Do you know what she said? ‘It must have been difficult for you without mom?’

So typical of her, to think of other people like that, especially when I know she’s missed her mother like hell.

‘Yea,’ I replied, ‘but we’ve been lucky that no one has ever blamed us for what she did. When she was sent to prison, I thought it might be best for you if we moved away. But no one has ever held it against us or taken it out on you.’

She looked thoughtful for a while and then she said: ‘I was thinking of you, dad, not me. These last three years must have been difficult.’

What could I say? ‘Yes, Ruth,’ I told her, ‘yes it has been difficulty, but I’ve concentrated on bringing you up and I’m really proud of how you’ve turned out. Your mom is too.’

She smiled at me. ‘Dad, there’s still another two years before she gets out and, like you say, I’ve grown up now. I’d like to help, if there’s anything I can do.’

I smiled and promised to let her know if there was anything she could do.

Dad is sweet, but he can be slow on the uptake, so I left him to think about my offer. I brought the topic up again over supper – I’d done a stir fry with noodles and prawns that he likes, using mom’s recipe.

‘Dad,’ I tried to sound casual, ‘you remember what I said this morning about it must have been difficult for you without mom, I didn’t mean about looking after me. I meant that you must miss having her around, for yourself.’

Dad looked thoughtful, like he was remembering. He finished his mouthful before speaking; he never spoke with his mouth full.

‘I do, Ruth, I do. Your mom and I were best friends from high school.’

I took a quick mouthful to stop myself laughing. Best friends. What a joke. They were always rowing and it got worse when dad began to realise that mom had a lot more money than she should have, and much worse when he discovered where it was coming from.

‘I mean,’ I said, wiping my mouth with my napkin, ‘that you’ve not even been on a date since mom went away.’

‘No,’ he said, ‘no, that’s true, I haven’t. And I’m not going to. I promised your mother I’d wait for her and that is what I plan to do.’

Like I said, he’s a sweet guy.

Poor Ruth. She’s missing her mother a lot. That’s not surprising as she’s reached an age when they would be relating to each other as adults rather than as parent and child. It’s no wonder she keeps asking me about her. She brought the subject up again at breakfast today.

‘Dad,’ she asked, ‘mom was about my age when you first met, wasn’t she?’

‘Yes,’ I agreed, ‘she was about your age when we first met, although it was a while before we got together.’

‘So,’ Ruth persisted, ‘did she look like me? I don’t mean in clothes and hairstyle and stuff, because they’re all out of date now. I mean physically. Did she look like me?’

That made me think, because I had noticed that over recent months as she’d filled out she did remind me of her mother.

‘Now you come to mention it, Ruth, yes, there is a resemblance. You have the same bone structure and you’re about her height and build.’

I soon wished I hadn’t admitted that much.

‘What about my figure? Does that remind you of mom’s too?’

Why did I feel comfortable talking about my daughter’s figure? But she was right, there was a close resemblance, once you made allowance for changing fashions in clothes and hairstyles.

‘Like I said, Ruth,’ I tried to prevaricate, ‘you have a very similar build. That’s only natural, being mother and daughter.’

If I thought that would stop her questions, I was wrong.

‘So, dad, was that what attracted you to her, her figure I mean?’

How could I deny it?

I was making progress so I hung around after breakfast to help clear away. As I passed him the plates to pack into the dishwasher, I asked: ‘Did you and mom off reminisce about that time when you were at High School?’

He looked at me quizzically for a moment as if he was trying to work out something. Then he said: ‘That’s only natural isn’t it, that you talk about the times that you’ve shared with someone.’

I didn’t follow that up, just began passing him the mugs. It wasn’t long before he cracked, just like I expected.

‘Why do you ask?’

‘It’s just that I was looking for things to dress up in one day and I found her old school uniform at the back of her wardrobe. I asked why she had kept it and she said you liked to see her in it.’

Dad stopped taking the dishes and straightened up, staring at me. It was difficult to read his expression. We stood like that for a while, me holding out the knives and him just standing there.

‘She told you that, did she?’ he asked eventually.

I nodded.

For the next few days, Ruth didn’t mention her mother. Life settled back into its normal routine and, much to my relief, she had no more questions.

Then on the Saturday evening when I was watching TV, she put her head round the door and told me to close my eyes.

‘Why?’ I asked, as I was enjoying the game.

‘It’s a surprise,’ she told me. ‘I’ve got a surprise for you.’

So I played along and closed my eyes, making a point of squeezing them really tight to show I couldn’t even peek.

‘OK,’ she announced a few seconds later, ‘you can look now.’

I couldn’t believe what I saw. She was standing there dressed in her mother’s old uniform. And not just that. She’d adjusted it. She must have pinned the back of the blouse, which was stretched tight across her chest with the top buttons undone for her breasts to spill out. And she’d hiked the skirt up to show her thighs.

It was a while before I trusted myself to speak. ‘Ruth,’ I tried to keep my voice as calm and level as possible, ‘please take those off and put your own clothes back on.’

I knew she meant well, so I’d deliberately tried not to hurt her feelings, but I could tell she didn’t understand my reaction. Instead of doing what I’d said, she came closer.

‘Why are you upset, dad? I thought you’d like to see me in mom’s old uniform, especially as she isn’t around to wear it for you and I look so much like her. Don’t you like how it looks on me?’

How could I explain?

Then a thought took root in my brain. Maybe I didn’t need to explain. Maybe she understood exactly why I wanted her to change back into her own clothes. Maybe this was where her questions had been leading all the time.

Of course I knew that mom didn’t just put on her old uniform so she and dad could sit down and chat about old times. I’m not that naïve. Apart from anything else, she’d put on weight so it was a really tight fit that left little to dad’s imagination. There was no doubt from the look in mom’s eyes when she told me. Even though I was much younger then, I understood why dad liked her to wear it.

And now here I was, right in front of him, and he couldn’t take his eyes off me. He’s looked at me before. I’ve noticed it quite a lot lately, but he’s always done it discreetly and when he thinks I’m not aware of it. But this time, he was blatant about it. He could only drag his eyes off my chest to look at my legs and as soon as he looked away from them, his gaze was back on my breasts. I could see his chest rising and falling as he breathed deeper.

When I moved closer, he couldn’t see my legs anymore and I could see it was a struggle for him as he tried to keep his eyes on my face. He knew that my breasts were popping out just below his eye line.

I wasn’t upset at his reaction. It was only to be expected really. After all, mom’s been in prison for three years now and there wasn’t much time for dressing up after her arrest. Seeing me was having a powerful effect on him. I just waited, giving him time to come to terms with the ideas that must have been forming in his mind.

Meanwhile, I just stood there, right in front of him, so close that I occasionally brushed against his chest.

In the end, I was the one who broke away. I mean, I had no option. She was so close to me, I could feel her breath on my throat and her nipples were brushing my chest. It was a miracle she didn’t feel my – well you know what I mean. I had to break her spell, because there was no doubt that was what she was doing, casting a spell on me.

I’d have been able to keep control better if she hadn’t taken me by surprise. I’m sure of that. I’m an adult and her father, after all. It was just that the resemblance was uncanny. She looked so much like her mother in that uniform. Not when she was a girl, I mean; when she used to put it on for me, before all that trouble blew up. Seeing her like that, it just brought back all the memories. It’s been such a long time. I thought I had myself under control, keeping ideas like that out of mind. I’d got through three years, that’s more than half way, there’s another two years to go.

I needed to get away. Get somewhere private. Sort myself out mentally, physically too. The first place I thought of was my bedroom, so I rushed upstairs, shut my door and threw myself onto my bed. I daren’t touch myself, desperate though I was. I mean, how could I? Ruth’s my daughter. It would be like, well, wrong. So I just lay there. Trying to get calm, trying to get the image out of my mind, trying to clear my mind of the thoughts that were milling around, forcing my hands to stay by my side. But each time I closed my eyes, the image of her standing there in front of me filled my mind. And each time I opened my eyes, the memories of her mother in that same outfit replaced the vision of her daughter. I couldn’t win. Even breathing was torture, as it made me aware of my own body.

I heard Ruth come upstairs and was afraid she might come into my room, but she didn’t. It sounded like she went to bed. At last, I felt safe, at least until the morning.

It’s going to take dad a while to get used to the idea, so I need to take it slowly. It’s been three years since mom went away and he’s not used to having a woman around. Not until now. He’s got to stop thinking of me as a child. I’m a woman now. The woman of the house. With a little help, he’ll come to realise that.

I’ve made a start by doing the chores mom used to do. Take some of the burden off him. Things like the washing and cleaning. Cooking too, he does his best, but he’s not that good at it. He’s pathetically grateful, thanking me every time I do anything. He seems on edge whenever he’s around me, like we’re strangers. That’s no surprise, because we are in a way, with me being grown up now.

But he needs to understand that I’m not just a domestic servant. Mom was never that. So I’ve been making sure dad notices me as a person. Nothing subtle, mind, he is a man after all. So I left my underwear lying around when I took it out of the wash, made sure that my bathrobe was only loosely tied when I passed him as I came out of the bathroom, tweaked my nipples so they were pushing through my t-shirt at breakfast, wiggled my ass as I walked out of the room. He watches me all the time, of course, has been since I began puberty, but I’ve put on a special show for him.

It’s been a relief, I can tell you. A relief that there was no repeat of Saturday evening. I’m feeling rather foolish about how I behaved, but thank goodness Ruth hasn’t mentioned it and I haven’t either. A relief too that she is starting to take responsibility around the house, taking over some of the things her mother used to do. It was a strain for me to manage all that on top of work.

I’m beginning to realise that Ruth’s growing up. I’d noticed that her body was developing. There was no way I could miss that, not that I let her know I noticed, the last thing I wanted was to embarrass her by staring or commenting. But these last few days I’ve spotted other things, little things, subtle things that she doesn’t realise. Like seeing her skimpy thongs lying around on the kitchen table, a flash as her bathrobe draped open, her nipples sticking out in my face across the table, the way her buttocks move inside her jeans.

I can’t deny it’s having an effect on me. Nothing like as bad as Saturday night, thankfully. This must be something all fathers go through living with a daughter as she grows up. The key is to keep it out of my mind. I can’t stop myself seeing what’s happening, but I mustn’t let it affect me. The odd thing is that I’m OK at the time, but it’s later, when I get into bed, that my mind starts working over what I’ve seen that day and stirring up all sorts of silly ideas. But thoughts do no harm, do they, so long as you don’t act on them.

Sunday has always been a day for lying in bed late, so I decided to give dad a surprise. I knocked peremptorily and walked in carrying a tray with coffee, juice, toast and honey, his usual breakfast. He scrambled upright, pulling the sheet straight as I sat the tray in his lap and climbed on the bed to sit cross-legged beside him. He was bare-chested; he always sleeps in shorts. I was still in my night attire of hipster panties (blue) and loose t-shirt (white).

‘Thank you, Ruth,’ he said as he sipped his juice, ‘this is an unexpected treat.’

‘No worries, dad,’ I told him, ‘I know you and mom used to like breakfast in bed on Sundays.’

He didn’t say anything, but I could have sworn that he blushed slightly. He kept looking at me as I sat watching him eat.

‘Don’t you want anything?’ he asked eventually.

I reached across and helped myself to the piece of toast he had just loaded with honey.

‘Thanks, dad.’

It seemed like he wanted to say something, but each time he took a sip of coffee or nibbled at his toast.

‘Yes?’ I prompted.

‘I’ve been wondering,’ he took a sip, ‘about the boys at school,’ another sip. This could take all day, but I wasn’t in a hurry. ‘I’ve seen you with them,’ he bite into his toast and chewed slowly, ‘but I was wondering,’ juice this time, ‘if there was one in particular you liked.’ He stopped suddenly as if he had under burdened himself of a big issue.

‘No, dad, there isn’t.’

‘Oh,’ was all he could say.

I shuffled closer and swivelled round to sit next to him.

‘The thing is, dad, they don’t interest me. I’m not gay, but I’m not interested in the boys at school. They’re all so immature for one thing, all they want to do is grope me for another, and-‘

I let my next point hang in the air.

‘And?’ He sounded worried about what I might say next.

I twisted towards him.

‘I like your chest,’ I told him, pushing my fingers into the lush growth of hair, some of them grey.

‘So?’

He obviously didn’t understand, so I explained.

‘The boys at school are all bare-chested, with tiny little red nipples. Ugh.’

He shifted position as my fingers continued to explore.

‘I see,’ he said, looking as though he didn’t.

One of my nails caught one of his nipples. He jumped and shifted again, adjusting the position of the tray. A nail caught his other nipple and he closed his eyes, moaning softly.

‘Are you OK, dad?’ I asked solicitously.

‘Sure, sure, I’m fine.’ His voice seemed hoarse.

‘I’d better move this,’ I said, taking hold of the tray and bending forward to put it on the floor.

‘No, no,’ he protested, ‘I’m fine, really.’ His voice still seemed strained.

‘I think you should have a rest,’ I told him. ‘It’s still early. Tell you what, dad, I’ll snuggle down with you.’ Saying which, I pulled back the sheet and slipped into bed beside him.

It was a really sweet gesture, at least that’s what I thought when she came in with my breakfast on a tray. I was a bit embarrassed to be caught unawares, dishevelled and still in the shorts I sleep in, although she couldn’t see beneath the sheet obviously.

But then she settled down, right beside me and she was only in those blue hipster panties that are her favourite colour. And with her legs crossed, the material was stretched tight over her crotch, so tight I could see the outline of her lips. Naturally, I kept my eyes well off that area, but she was in that loose t-shirt that fell open every time she leaned across me, with she kept doing to pick at my breakfast, so in the end I didn’t know where to look. I’ve got to admit this was bothering me a bit.

And she mentioned her mother and I having breakfast in bed on Sundays, only she said it in a way sort of hinted she knew what we were doing and it wasn’t only breakfast, although we thought she was too young at the time. maybe she put two and two together later.

Anyway, I was managing until she started stroking my chest. That’s definitely what she was doing. There was nothing innocent about that or about the effect it was having on me. I had to shift around to get comfortable and moved the tray to make sure there was nothing showing that shouldn’t be.

And then she went for my nipples. That must have been deliberately too, because she wasn’t using her nails, only the tips of her fingers as she burrowed into my chest hair, but when she came to the nipple, she used her nail, sharply, like her mother used to. Shit. The effect that had, I’m surprised I didn’t send the tray flying off the bed. If that wasn’t bad enough, she did it again.

And then, then she stuck her ass in the air, bending over to put the tray on the floor. I took the chance to get my hand down and get myself organised, only for her to announce that she’d join me. before I knew it, and before I could stop her, she was in the bed beside me, her toes tickling down my leg.

This was bad, I knew it was bad, I was sure she knew it to. It was just a question of getting out of this situation.

She carried on fingering my chest and scratching my nipples, her eyes not meeting mine, while I frantically tried to find a way to get of this with our dignity and self-respect intact, putting my reaction out of my mind as best I could. It was only physical. Then she stopped, but kept her eyes fixed on my chest.

‘I love this line of hair,’ she said, ‘leading my eyes down.’ And her eyes followed the dark line of hair down the centre of my chest and over my stomach. I could feel the heat of her eyes as they slowly moved down. Then the tip of her finger followed, seeming to float over my flesh until it reached beneath the sheet and stopped at my navel.

‘Ruth,’ I gasped, mustering the moral courage I knew I was going to need, ‘it’s time to get up now. You run along and get dressed.’

She stayed still for what seemed like ages, her finger hovering above the waistband of my shorts, and then just threw the sheet aside the climbed off the bed.

Dad’s words were just what he used to say when he wanted me to get dressed. But they weren’t the way he used to say them. Back then, when I was a child, he spoke with command. Now, he was pleading with me. I read his tone and complied, although I didn’t have to. If I had just stayed there, he couldn’t have made me leave, not without getting hold of me and he wouldn’t have done that. He knew he’d be lost if he did that.

I just stayed in my room, waiting for developments. It took about half an hour before he tapped on my door and spoke without attempting to come in.

‘I was thinking, Ruth, why don’t we go out for a walk and maybe get some lunch down by the river.’

‘OK, dad,’ I called out, ‘just give me a few minutes and I’ll be down.’

His eyes almost popped out when he saw me come downstairs in a tank top, micro skirt and cork wedge sandals. No bra, no need, my tits are still small and pert enough not to need one.

‘Right, dad,’ I announced, heading out of the door, ‘let’s go.’

We walked along side by side for a while, before I slipped my arm through his and pulled him close, my hip rubbing against his thigh, my hair brushing his shoulder. I looked up at him occasionally, but his gaze was fixed straight ahead. Mostly, I watched the other people out walking, trying to judge their reactions. Did they see us an father and daughter, or did they have other ideas? It was difficult to tell.

When he came to a halt along by the river, I turned to face him and said, very quietly, ‘Thank you, dad, thank you for everything.’ Then I reached up and kissed him, holding the contact a little longer than necessary. When I broke the kiss, I clung to him, my arms round his chest, my body pressed against his. After a few seconds, he put his arms round me. It would have looked odd in public if he hadn’t responded.

I had to hold her, there was no choice. But it was bad, I knew it. She knew it too, she had to, she had engineered it. All that contact, her arm pulling his close, her hip pressed into my thigh, her thigh brushing mine as we walked. And then that kiss. No way was that a father-daughter kiss. No way. Any man would have reacted like I did, especially any man who’d been tormented as I had been in bed and now out in public on our walk. She held me so tight afterwards that I couldn’t have broken away, even if I had wanted to.

Her breasts were pressed against my chest, so hard I could feel her erect nipples. She had her head on my shoulder and must have heard my heart racing. And with her belly pressed against mine, there was no way she could miss the reaction in my crotch.

In a way, I was glad that she didn’t move away, because there was no way anyone who looked could miss my reaction. But holding on to me just made it worse. My wife would have told me not to worry. ‘Be proud of what you’ve got,’ she said to me once, ‘coz I’m sure proud of the effect I have on you.’ but it wasn’t her having the effect now, it was her daughter.

I noticed I was thinking of Ruth as her daughter now, rather than as our daughter.

How was I going to get out of this?

I let dad calm down, leaving him to judge when he felt comfortable to show himself to the people along the river. It took a while, but I was careful not to rub against him, allowing him a chance to subside. Eventually, he coughed and said something about finding somewhere for lunch. He was more talkative than normal as we strolled along, determined I guess to keep control of the situation. I just responded without thinking about what he was saying, waiting for the right moment to intervene and turn the conversation the way I wanted.

I didn’t rush. There was no need. We had the rest of the day to ourselves and it was pleasantly warm with a gentle breeze. We had our meal and wandered aimlessly around. I think dad just wanted to avoid going home where he would be alone with me. When we stopped to watch some boats, I felt the time was right to pop my question.

‘Dad, I’ve been wondering, just how big are you?’

He looked puzzled.

‘You know what I mean, dad, how big’s your cock?’

He look frantically around before turning to face me.

‘Really, Ruth, you shouldn’t be asking me questions like that. It’s not something fathers and daughters ought to be talking about.’

‘Come off it, dad,’ I countered. ‘There’s no need to be modest, I’ve just had it sticking into my stomach and this morning your sheet looked like a tent, it almost knocked your tray off the bed.’

‘OK,’ he conceded grudgingly, ‘if you must know, your mom measured me at seven and three quarters inches in length and the girth is six and a quarter.’

I smiled. He was telling the truth. I knew because I had overheard mom and her friends comparing notes. They had all purred and said how lucky she was. Dad was biggest of all apart from Sally’s dad who was over nine inches. Everyone thought that was too big, including Sally’s mom.

‘I’m glad about that, dad. You see that’s another problem I have with the boys at school. They’re all proud of themselves, but they’ve all got thin stalks and just look silly.’

Dad looked really proud that I was impressed, but he still tried to change the topic. I let him. For now.

It’s been a terrible day. I’ve been on tenterhooks, not knowing what she was going to do or say next. I can’t believe that I spent my time after lunch telling her how big my cock is. I don’t mind having an adult conversation with her, but that’s not exactly a normal father-daughter discussion topic. Not that I’ve anything to be embarrassed about. Her mother never complained, quite the opposite. She told me bragged about me to her friends, made them jealous. One actually started making up to me, but I made it clear that I wasn’t interested.

Should I get some bolts for our bedroom doors? I could say that now Ruth’s growing up she’s entitled to her privacy. But what’s the point? She wouldn’t use hers and she’d find a way to get at me despite mine. If she can get me aroused in public on a walk by the river, a bolted door wouldn’t be an obstacle.

I pretty much know what to expect next, because there’s a pattern developing. Ruth does something blatant, then she backs off for a while and does something more subtle before trying something more outrageous again. I mustn’t relax, though, that would be fatal. She’d soon take advantage, that’s for sure. Actually, it’s the subtle that is having more effect. I can cope better with the blatant, like that kiss on the embankment. The subtle moves are more insidious and I don’t notice the effect they are having at the time. Take the ways she is exposing herself to me more and more. Wearing those shorts skirts, or letting her bathrobe fly open. She’s clever about it. Very clever. I’ve seen her nipples through her clothes and caught glimpses of the mound of her breasts, but she’s not let me see a whole breast, let along anything in her crotch. I don’t even know whether she shaves or not. The problem is that she’s got me thinking more about what she’s not showing me than what she is.

Sure, I know what one of those therapists would suggest. Talk to her. Tell her the effect she is having. Ask her why, explain why she must stop. Fine advice, but she knows the effect she is having without being told and there is no way she is going to stop. Letting her know how badly she’s affecting me, that would just feed her and she’d step up the pressure.

The danger will come tonight, when I’m asleep. Perhaps I’ll put a chair under my door knob. At least I’ll get some warning that she’s on patrol.

I was reading in bed, just like I always do, and must have nodded off, because I work up with a start to find my book in my lap. Something had woken me up. A noise. I looked across to the door. The chair was vibrating. Someone had tried to open my door. Ruth. I kept quiet and waited to see if she tried again or called out to me. But I heard nothing until a few minutes later I heard her door close quietly. I put out the light, but it was a long time before I fell asleep.

Dad’s really hooked. I thought I’d have to work on him some more when I found he had barricaded himself into his room, but I was wrong. He can’t take his eyes of me. His eyes follow me whenever I walk around. I’ve caught his reflection looking at my ass or my tits or my legs. Wherever I go, he’s close by.

I’m sure he was standing in the bathroom while I was showering. There was definitely a shadow there and it moved when I started to climb out. He couldn’t see into the shower and it was full of steam anyway, but I’d left the bathroom door open so he’d have been able to see me through the crack as I dried myself. The next day he walked out of his room just as I was going along the landing from the bathroom. There was only a small towel protecting my modest and it slipped as I rushed into my room, so he probably got a view of my ass. And I’m sure he came into my room last night. The door definitely opened, but I didn’t move. He didn’t stay long, but he definitely came inside. Probably didn’t like to wake me.

Since he was feeling close to me, I decided to start another of my adult conversations. It was mid evening and he was relaxing with a glass of wine.

‘Dad,’ I asked snuggling down next to him on the sofa, ‘how often do you masturbate?’

It was so funny, he almost spat out his wine.

‘Really, Ruth,’ he was trying to sound stern and not succeeding, ‘that is not something that people discuss.’

‘I don’t want a discussion,’ I told him, ‘we had one of those at school years ago. I was just asking, because mom’s been away for three years now and you’ve not been dating, so …’

I let my point hang.

‘That’s true, Ruth, I haven’t been dating and, for the record, I haven’t masturbated either. I told your mother I would wait for her and that was what I meant.’

‘WOW, but your balls must be aching. How come it hasn’t driven you mad? I have to masturbate all the time. How have you been coping?’

It’s been a miserable week. I’ve been afraid to move without knowing where she was, so I had to keep my eyes peeled everywhere I went. But she still got under my radar. She left the bathroom door open while she was showering. Now she knows that the door left open is a signal to other members of the household that it’s safe to enter so we don’t get distrurbed. So I walked in and there she was in the shower, her breasts pressed against the glass. She must have been waiting for me. Another day she whizzed past me on the landing clad only in a small towel that she let drop as she entered her room, giving me a flash of her buttocks. It’s got so bad I even check that she’s asleep before I go to bed and that’s despite the chair under the door knob. It’s no wonder I’m in a such a state.

But I was handling it – until – yes until she started another of those conversations. How often do I masturabate? I mean, how many daughters would ask their father’s that? And then how have I coped? Well, the answer was that I was coping very well until she started her antics. This has gone too far. It’s time to draw a line and lay down some boundaries.

The first thing to do was get some distance between us. She had snuggled up close on the sofa, so I got up and stood, giving myself the advantage of distance and height and, as it happened, a view down the front of her shirt.

‘Ruth,’ I said sternly, ‘this has got to stop?’

‘What?’ she asked innocently.

‘This,’ I told her, ‘all these things you’ve been doing.’

‘Like what, dad?’ Still playing the innocent.

‘Like enticing me into the bathroom and showing yourself off in the shower. Like running around in a towel and letting if drop off. Like asking me all kinds of intimate questions. Like getting into bed with me. Like getting me aroused in public. Like dressing up in your mother’s school uniform. like getting into bed with me. Like having these intimate conversations. That’s what’s got to stop.’

‘Dad,’ she uncrossed her legs and spread her thighs slightly, ‘I don’t know what you are complaining about. OK, I made a mistake with the bathroom door, but you didn’t have to stand there watching. And so my towel fell off. You wouldn’t have noticed if you hadn’t been watching and I’ve seen that happen to mom a couple of times, so where’s the big deal? And what, may I ask, is wrong with having an adult conversation? And as for the river, well that was your reaction to a kiss from your daughter. How am I supposed to be to blame for that? I was the one who had to cover your embarrassment until you calmed down. All these things, dad, are in your mind. It’s your reaction to what I’m doing that’s the problem, not me.’

She stared up at me. I knew she was right, well in a way. She could talk herself out of all that had happened, make them seem innocent, put the blame back on perverted old dad who couldn’t stop getting aroused by his daughter.

My slumped shoulders must have told her that I admitted defeat.

‘Alright,’ I said, ‘what do you want?’

She smiled and then said casually, ‘It’s silly locking yourself in your bedroom, isn’t it.’

Message received and understood.

I left him to stew for a few days. He’d probably see it as some clever ruse. In fact, I was waiting for my period to finish. When it was clear, I waited until he had been in his room for a while and then sauntered in and climbed into bed with him. His eyes followed me across the room, watching my thigh muscles ripple and my small tits bounce under my t-shirt.

‘This is what you want, isn’t it, dad?’ I asked.

He nodded.

‘You’ve wanted this for a while, haven’t you?’

Another nod.

‘Since before mom went away?’

‘Yes,’ he croaked.

‘Did she know?’

‘No. Well, I’m not sure. Maybe. Probably she guessed something.’

‘Why do you think that, dad?’

‘She caught me looking at you and commented. Nothing direct, just thinks like “She’s growing up fast” or ‘Quite the little woman now.” Things she didn’t normally say.’

‘Is that why she dressed up in her old uniform for you?’

‘No,’ dad’s answer was spontaneous and genuine. ‘No, that was her idea. Her fetish. She liked dressing up. I think it allowed her to be someone else for a while.’

‘Her real self?’

‘Maybe,’ he agreed, ‘yes, maybe you’re right.’

‘But you imagined she was me, didn’t you.’

He nodded.

‘Even when she wasn’t dressed up.’

He nodded again.

‘Well,’ I told him firmly, ‘she’s not here and I am. What are you going to do?’

What was I going to do? Yes, that was the question. A good question.

The thing was that I was fine with this as a fantasy and I was fine with it when Ruth was taking the lead, but when it actually came to touching her, touching my own daughter, touching her in the ways she was offering, well I knew I just couldn’t. I could feel myself shrivel. If I took the initiative, I’d end up failing and that was something I couldn’t face.

‘Ruth,’ I said quietly, ‘I’m going to need you to help me with this.’

She just smiled and said ‘OK, dad, no problems.’ Then she was up on her knees and pulling her t-shirt over her head. She held it like that, her face covered, so I could stare at her tits without her seeing me, so that I could as it were detach her body from her as a person. Then in a flurry off it came and she was smiling down at me, looking amused at my reaction.

‘So, dad, what do you think? Do you like them?’

All I could do was nod as she lent over me letting them hang close to my mouth, tempting me to stretch up and kiss them. I resisted, knowing it was wrong, but knowing too that I wouldn’t stop her, whatever she did to me.

She straddled my left leg, putting her full weight on top of me. Her breasts pressed against my chest, her erect nipples poking into my flesh. Her tongue tickled my neck and I felt the warmth of her crotch through her panties as she clenched her thighs around mine. Slowly, slowly she slid down, her damp panties leaving a moist line down the front of my thigh as her tongue worked its way down, its tip burrowing into my thatch until it found my nipples.

Suck, lick, chew, bite. She worked my nipples, alternately snapping and pulling at them with her teeth, soothing them with her saliva, and sucking them like a baby. My weakest point, well almost my weakest point, and she milked me until I was moaning and writhing beneath her.

And then she headed south, the tip of her tongue following the line of my hair across my stomach, round by navel and into the tangle of pubes that protected my flaccid cock.

I just couldn’t get hard. It was easy when I was fantasising about her or when she was teasing me, but when it came to … well, you know what … I just couldn’t even use the words, they just wouldn’t come into my head in association with my daughter. My brain and my body knew the difference between fantasy and reality. Finally, I had to use the words that no man ever wants to use, to confess my ultimate failure as a man.

‘Sorry, Ruth, I can’t, I just can’t.’

This isn’t a surprise. Fathers are programmed not to fuck with their daughters. So he needs my help, help to see my as a woman and sexual partner, not as a child any more.

I roll off dad and wriggle out of my panties making sure that my arms and legs rub against him. I kicked them out of the way down the bottom of the bed and climb astride him, sitting back on his thighs so that he can get his first full view of my naked body, on display for him to admire.

‘I’m not your little girl any more, am I, dad?’ I asked this as a question, but it is really a statement and the look on his face tells me that he understands.

I take my tits in my hands, lifting them, pressing them against my chest so that they swell upwards, before pulling and tweaking my nipples to make them rock hard. I lean forward, allowing them to fall towards his face.

‘These aren’t the little nipples you used to see when you bathed me, are they, dad?’ Another statement. ‘These are breasts, suckable tits, ones that you can suck to arouse me. Lick them, go on, taste them for the first time.’ I bend lower and he extends his tongue to meet them, touching them gently with the tip. I shudder with the first contact that he has made on his own, his first sexual contact with me. I lower even further, presenting my whole breasts to his mouth. He’s tempted, I can see it in his eyes, in the way he licks his lips. He just needs a prod and I give him one.

‘Go on,’ I whisper encouragingly.

He opens his mouth and sucks hard on my left breast, snapping his teeth over my nipples as he withdraws. I jump at the sudden pain and moan softly to let him know this is OK. He does the same to my right tit with the same response. I push myself upright again, running my hands over my firm stomach and belly, leading his eyes down to my crotch and the small neatly trimmed triangle of soft pubes.

‘See dad, the mark of a woman. Do you like them like this or should I grow them out for you or would you prefer me bald?’

He opens his mouth but cannot find the words to speak. He just stares, licking his lips.

I rise on my knees and tilt my hips, showing my pussy.

‘Look at those lips, dad, they’re not like the little slit I had as a child. They’re full and soft and ready for you.’

He nods. I’ve not touched or even looked at his cock yet.

I part my lips to show him my little red button. I can feel it trembling.

‘Look, dad, my pleasure button. Ready to be rung. Are you ready to ring it, dad?’

He wants to. I can sense it. I rub my finger between my lips and suck it dry. I’ve never seen a look like that on a man’s face. Hunger.

I fall forward onto my hands and slid my legs down, my tits dangling as my body descends. All the time I keep my eyes on his, until with my head over his belly, I look down. He’s still soft.

My head goes down on him and I start to suck. He’s moaning, but there’s no stiffening. I raise my head.

‘Was this how mom looked when you first met, dad? When you first fucked her? Imagine you’re back then and you’re fucking her again for the first time.’

I gobble him again and this time I sense a stiffening. The stiffening that starts at the base but doesn’t yet extend the full length. He’s making me work for this, but it’s worth it.

‘What your favourite trick? The one that sends you wild?’

He doesn’t reply. His eyes are closed, probably remembering that first encounter with my mother. I don’t need him to tell me. I know the answer, because I heard mom and her friends comparing notes. My hands grab his ass and my nails furrow along his crack, circling his hole.

His cock is stiffening now, as I insert the tip of an index finger and slowly fuck his ass.

Steadily, with my mouth working his cock and my fingers working around his ass, he grows and thickens, filling my mouth and pushing at my throat. I struggle to stop myself gagging. With him fully hard, I climb astride him and guide his cock between my lips and into my cunt, holding it there by its head while I swivel my hips until I ease my way down the full length, feeling for the first time the stretch that my mother and her friends all cooed about.

I lie there, admiring my daughter, proud of her, amazed at her skill, letting the pleasure she is creating flow through my body. Proud she is my daughter, proud because she is my daughter, proud despite her being my daughter.

Her fingers are so dexterous as she peels back my foreskin, her thumb and forefinger slowly revealing my purple swollen head. Then she tuck it back, sharp and tight. I bite my lower limb.

Then she’s up, her legs astride my hips, lowering herself slowly, the muscles of her thighs quiver as she brings her pussy down towards my cock. I hold my breath and wait for that first touch. The dampness of her pussy lips soothes my cock lips and then she pushed down, long, slow and unrelenting, forcing me inside her, dragging the skin of my cock tighter across its head. I’m still holding my breath, still biting on my lip, afraid to release the cries of pleasure that was welling up inside me. and then she’s home. I’m buried deep inside her, her cunt scorching my cock, her heat for me, her father.

She sits there looking down at me, her chest rising and falling, her nipples quivering as her chest sets her tiny tits swaying slightly, mesmerising as my eyes follow them. I’m licking my lips now, wanting to lick those nipples, take those tits into my mouth. I pull myself up, my head moving towards them and then, suddenly, we’re clasping each other, rolling across the bed. Now I am on top of her, her thighs parted, her body pressed down by mine. How did it happen? Did she pull me onto her? Did I roll onto her, unable to wait any longer.

Her face is close to mine. She whispers so quietly I barely hear what she is saying. Then I catch it.

‘Go, daddy, go, fuck your little girl.’

It is like a signal has been given, my body responds with thinking. I am poised over her now, my hands beside her shoulders, and my hips pumping. And with each long, deep thrust I scream at her, not caring whether the whole neighbourhood hears me.

You – bitch – you tight-cunted – whore – rip you – tear you – fuck – fuck – fuck – each word emphasising a thrust that makes her body quake.

And over my words she is shouting back.

Cunt on fire – bitch on heat – fuck your baby – like you fucked mommy – tell me – talk to me – tell me how you feel fucking your own daughter.

I am too breathless to explain. All I can do is gasp out words.

Wanted you – years – watched you – spied on you in the shower – stood over your bed – touching you through the sheet – bumping into you around the house.

Now she touches me, scratching at my chest with her short, sharp nails, digging her fingers into my hairs, pulling them hard, pain, pleasure, pleasure through pain, pain in pleasure, making me thrust harder, longer, deeper, making me call out to her.

Feel your daddy’s power – are you proud of him – bigger than the other fathers – make your mommy sore – make you sore baby – fill your cunt baby.

Suddenly I feel my balls starting to pulse. I slow but she encourages me. Go, daddy, go, don’t stop, fuck your little Ruth, take me daddy, take me good.

And I know I can’t stop. However much I want this to continue, I can’t last any longer. In a flurry of movement my balls explode, propelling my seed deep inside her.

For a while I hold myself over her, as she wraps her legs around me, squeezing every last drop from me. Just like her mother.

As my breathing subsides, I collapse onto her and she holds me in her arms.