The sun filtered in slowly, filling my room with a dull glow. Another day, or not. I was lying in my bed, eyes half open contemplating the pain of consciousness. There was nowhere I needed to be, I never had to work another day in my life. I was a wealthy man. I was a broken man too - not that it wasn’t deserved.
Still later, I was staring out my living room window, my perfectly clean *empty* living room. You reap what you sow. I learned important lessons, married after college to a woman I thought I loved, and partied and drank hard, selling and brokering oh so important things; had a horrible temper - and at the same maintained a perfect veneer of hypocritical moralism. My first wife had left me, and each and every child I had by her will have nothing to do with me. And then I remarried a wonderful woman. I had begun to pull my life together, felt this strange sensation of happiness. I had a wonderful beautiful supportive wife who understood me.
She was killed last year in a car wreck, by a road rage incident no less. My life at forty five was a ruin.
And then . . .
“Hi. Uh. Tom.??”
“Dad! It’s me, Sara. Hi!” My youngest. My God. I started to choke up. I had to think a little bit.
“Yes. Yes. Hello, Sara. Yes.”
“I’m in town - for a conference. I thought I would stop by to see you. I know it’s been a long time. I know it’s . . . I, uh, didn’t even know if this number still worked.”
“Well you got me. Sure Sure. That would be fine. Come over.”
“Wonderful. I can’t wait! I’ll see you then at 2:00.”
My youngest. She was the little accident that kept my wife and I together that additional two years. I turned to the clock - it was twelve noon. I was still in my underwear. I think I could get ready in two hours. I lifted myself from the chair at the window.
I lost all visitation rights for my children two years after our divorce and I lost the thread, had no idea where anyone was. Twenty years later I receive this call.
She arrived sometime around two. Her small frame silhouetted by the sunlight, smiling big white teeth at me. She came up to me quickly, this little bird, and gave me a hug.
I sat and stared at her. My mind was still in a fog most of the time. The last I had seen her she was ten, no more. She was this little awkward, quiet, skinny kid. Now she had on a simple pair of low jeans, and a top that rode above her hips so that her navel was set like a tear drop right at the center. When she moved it peeked in and out of view.
I learned she had graduated college, was top of her class, and had already received her Masters in Psychology. Her Phd program was next and it would be here.
I asked, “How do you get through to a doctorate at twenty? That’s what you are right.”
She smiled, proud, “I got through most of my undergraduate work in highschool and took an accelerated Masters.”
I nodded. “Wow. Smart, like your mother.” I watched her smile fade.
“I need to ask you something. And. . .” She looked down into her perfectly coifed little lap, her blonde locks falling around her shoulders. She was so small I remembered thinking to myself. This little girl. My little girl. She looked up, “You can say no.” She brushed the hair from her eyes.
I waited. I thought of the irony of this little psychology major sitting here and me in the throes of ruin. I was laughing inside.
“See, I thought maybe I could . . . stay here. . . I mean. I could clean. Take care of some things, in exchange for a room. I’ll buy my own food.”
She was leaning forward on the couch. Had her hands together. She was leaning back now on the sofa, throwing her hair back, and it brought her navel out once again - front and center folded in her concave tummy above narrow hips. She wasn’t wearing socks, just a pair of white sneakers, I thought that was somehow odd.
“I need some time to settle in and it won’t be very long. I get an internship in three months and start getting paid. And . .”
I was staring at her feet, no socks. “Ok,” was all I said. Just like that, and, “Sure. It would be fine.”
Then I got up and walked into the kitchen poured myself a red wine from the fridge. I felt the need to unwind. Someone in my life I thought.
“Sure yeah. We . . . uh, I have lots of room. You can help out, yeah.”
I sipped my wine. “Want some.”
She settled in the very next week and in no time it felt, it really felt like she had been there forever. Her temperament, her personality somehow fit so well with me. I felt so terrible about losing out on the years we could have had together.
She had some quirks though. She was so comfortable in her skin and that comfort meant that I got to see a lot of it.
Mornings took the most getting used to on that score. She would come out of her room in the morning and pad into the kitchen wearing these oh so thin tops, these little half T shirts, and tiny matching bottoms; pink, yellow, white. Some kind of cottony fabric. Not panties really, but not much more. One morning I gestured to her standing in front of me sipping her coffee and asked, “What are those?”
She said, “What?” and looked down at herself, “Oh these!” She laughed and tugged at them from her hip. “They call them boypants.”
“I never seen any boys wear them?”
“No. I think they are FOR boys . . to like look at!” She laughed, “Like them?”
She was swaying her hips at me just then, standing on one leg then the other, looking down at me since I was sitting. A sort of invitation to stare at her middle and I obliged, looking at her knees to navel.
She stood on one leg and let her hip tip up and then spun on her foot to the sink. I watched her bottom swirl and then step away. Her boypants today were a light yellow, and her top was so thin I could see her skin pinken the fabric. I didn’t see any bra. She looked amazing and her middle went on and on, her navel was this little thin vertical line.
“You didn’t answer,” She looked down at herself pouting.
“Oh, I like them fine.” She was satisfied then.
When I read the paper she had another habit that was gradually making me crazy. I sat at the table with my coffee to one side and would fold the paper and lay it out on the table to read it. She would come up behind me and lean down holding her cup and read it over my shoulder. I could feel the heat of her breathing, the warmth of her cheek just an inch from mine. I could smell the powder of her skin. Cinnamon.
“Does this bother you??”
It did not bother me. She should ask does this distract you.
Her cheek would sometimes brush mine, rough because I had not shaved, and I could feel her warmth behind me from time to time as I paged through my paper. When she was about to leave she would turn her head and kiss me on the cheek. Once or twice her breathing would catch in my ear and it would tingle up through my center. I could feel myself flush suddenly with her breath in my ear.
For the first time in years I was beginning to feel pleasure.
She had to have known her effect on me. I could see the twinkle in her eyes, of self awareness. The warmth of her body when she brushed the back of my shoulder, her hand right at my neck when she set the coffee in front of me. The little scratch when she would dig her nail into me as she took her hand away, sending shivers down my spine. And this went on for months.
Our morning ritual became for me my addiction. She wore all manner of outfits, a never ending array. She said one time apologetically, "I'm a bit of a clothes horse." And I loved to watch her movements, so liquid as she flitted and glided through the house. Her coy eyes fluttering, little lines when she laughed, and so expressive; eyes opening wide when making some point or about to laugh, and her little girls song of 'good mornings' and 'goodbyes.' The way she clapped her hands together, the way she tipped her head to her shoulder to look back at me. And those teeth. My little girl.
The morning I could not forget - ever - was seeing her, her back to me at the kitchen sink. That image is burned in my memory. I had grabbed my paper. She always made the coffee now, and when I set at the table and looked up at her back to me, I saw her bare legs rising endless up from the floor as they always did. Barefooted, as they always were (I loved looking at her legs).
But . . . but this time rising up up to a little line of red string at each hip. She was wearing this little red pair of panties! The concave of the middle of her back arching over the top edge of her red panties which set right at the crack of her ass. Her white smooth skin curving out from her thighs, and her narrow narrow waist bared to just below her shoulder blades. Soft bare white smooth skin and I felt an immediate erection which led me to pull myself close the table. I did not want to risk the walk to the pot of coffee.
Her top was a silk camisole this morning, and if any other day was a sign it was all she wore. Also red, satin, soft light. And then - She turned around, pivoting on one foot. The camisole hanging loose tipping down lightly between her breasts, their weight filling the fabric, flaring at her ribs. Her panties forming the smallest triangle below her navel. Her abdomen this expanse of flesh rising from the little triangle, showing off the bone of each hip, her little tear drop navel, the frame of her ribs to just below her breasts.
“You forgot your coffee,” and she padded barefoot over to where I dared not go.
“You’re . . .”
She looked at me, her bright almond eyes.
“Your panties. You have on panties.”
She looked down and back into my eyes. Not a trace of embarrassment. She just said, “Its Valentines Day! It’s my little tradition. I wear these on Valentines Day. Like them?”
I did. I nodded my head.
She brought the cup over to me and stood directly before me. I looked up at her, into her eyes. I took a breath, “Thanks.”
She turned and walking back to the counter, stood with one hip up the way she did, sipping at her coffee, and the panties folding a crease down her backside, bunching up between her legs.
What was she doing to me? She didn’t even realize.
Laundry had been MY chore, my only chore ever really, assigned me by my late wife. And, It was important to me. I had never done anything around the house. Never contributed to the family, to the home. She had changed that in me by laundry.
When my little Sara moved in I had continued doing the laundry. Laundry really was a very simple chore but there was an aspect I had not anticipated. When I stood in the basement sorting all the dirty laundry into their respective cold, warm, hot, whites, reds, I found myself holding a pair of Sara’s panties. And then another. Another. I simply took them, held them a moment, felt their fabric, their lightness in my hand, and tossed them into their appropriate piles.
I ignored the fleeting titillation, of holding her undergarments, her ‘privates.’ I could recognize the various items she wore, could picture her in some because she would wear them around the house. She had bras tangling in the pile, her small T shirts too, half tops, boypants, camisoles, white and pink, powder blue. Little animals on some of her panties, one pair that said Thursday. Silk and cotton; eggshell panties worn thin, one or two with small holes in the crotch, some of thin silk, thongs - all small and revealing, all teasing my imagination. The material in my hand each time I lifted a pair, turning them sometimes front to back. No more than one inch of fabric between her legs. It set my heart in motion, I enjoyed the feeling.
But one morning after she had left for her office, alone in the basement - I caught sight of those red panties she had worn on Valentines Day, and suddenly I could see her standing there before me in my minds eye. I could feel my pulse quicken as I picked them up and turned them inside out. Just the smallest lightest little fabric. They untied at each hip. You could simply pull a string to untie them.
I turned them inside out to see just a tan line running down the inside of her crotch across a little white square of fabric. That area of fabric that covered her THERE. *Her pussy* I closed my eyes. And I held it in my hand, touched the stain, the stiffened fabric, glanced at it a moment longer than normal and tossed it in the appropriate pile.
But then went back, picked it up again, looked around. My heart pounding, lifted the little triangle to my nose and inhaled. Her smell.
What is it about the smell of pussy?
Ask any man who will answer honestly. Fresh and hungry. A smell which is at once like lifting the rich earth itself from damp soil and breathing it in. And every man has done it, whether is was his mothers panties as a boy, perhaps his sisters, or girlfriends one day while sitting in her room, or his friends wife secretly at a dinner party. Or a nieces panties dropped near the hamper spotted on a visit over the holidays. Every man has done it.
The scent gives the same feeling inside the ancient brain as if you were watching a girl lift her ass to your waiting eyes, lifting her skirt above her waist. Exposing her cunt to you pulling her lips open, of letting you in. It is at once clean and dirty; touches that animal part of us. The scent of a woman and of sweat.
And there is something sweet, so very sweet, of innocence, something like honey, like cinnamon on your tongue. My little girl. My little girls smell. I could feel my libido rise, my mouth water, my breath quicken, my cock stiffen as I held her panties to my mouth breathing in.
Of Pleasure giving way to Lust.
I stood down there that day inspecting and smelling her panties, inspecting each one. Feeling the fabric, examining their shape, testing their smell, touching them with my tongue. Some were clean, hardly worn, with a very soft bouquet. But some rich, beautiful, intoxicating! I was so happy that day, deep within this secret.
That evening she came home, set her things in the closet and lay out her papers on the kitchen table as was her habit. Then she was off to her room for a little while, changing into her nightshirt for the evening (also her habit), and then back out to sit a little with her various papers, reading, note taking, talking into her little recorder. So professional she was in the evenings.
I looked at the back of her, now standing and bending over the table, her back to me. I followed the line of her back, arching so softly to her narrow waist, her hips widening beneath the night shirt which set right at mid thigh lifting higher each time she bent over her papers. I simply watched, eyeing where the lines of her panties would fall beneath the fabric.
I could in fact see those red panties in my imagination, I was reliving that morning she stood in the kitchen, teasing me. I was watching her rising and falling over the table, her long hair trailing along her back, falling down around her shoulders. I swear I could smell her just then.
I chastised myself too. Behave.
Then one day it happened. The inevitable. I was in the basement. I was sorting, and at the moment I held a small delicate, lace edged pair of her panties to my nose, breathing in, enjoying her delicate bouquet – she turned the corner, paused a moment.
“Oh, Um.” She stared at me. Then, Eyes Wide. “Sorry. I uh,” at the moment of realization on her face, she turned and left.
I sat down in a chair put my head down in my hands. What had I done? I had gone too far.
When finally I came upstairs, Sara was in her room. The door closed. I waited. Like a child I waited, panic in my eyes. Real pain. I felt tears forming in my eyes. I didn’t want to lose her again, to be alone. It was foolish, why did I do it? My daughter reappears in my life, my empty life, and . . .
. . .
Then I simply heard, “Dad! It’s dinner. It’s ready.” The completely normal trill of my little girl from down the hall. I looked around, I must have fallen asleep.
I rose, lifted myself from the bed. Remembering, I felt depressed, and I slogged into the dining room sat down at the empty table. She was in the kitchen.
She came out with a lovely roast and set it on the table.
I averted my eyes. She did not. She stared at me quizzically, wrinkling her nose. I think she was waiting for ME to say something before finally starting, “Um, about . . .”
And I blurted out a stream of words at the table, “I’m sorry sweetie. I’m so sorry. . .” It came out of me. “I never before. . .you don’t understand . . .it never . . .” I lied.
She stopped me, paused. “Dad its fine . . . relax. I mean it’s not, terribly unusual." Pausing, "There are strong biological reasons. Pheromones. You thought you were alone. It's ok.”
I was silent, mouth open.
And then with mischief in her eyes, “You certainly seem to be doing more than laundry then?”
I looked across the table to her. She was wearing a pair of her sweats that she usually wears when she is going to work out in the gym. “Never again. I am so sorry Sara.”
“I doubt it will be the last time. . .if you are going to keep doing the laundry. And I sure don’t want to start doing it."
"There, now we’ve taken care of that haven’t we?” And she reached for a dish, “Potatoes?”
“For your perverted old man,” I mumbled as I reached for the dish.
She even laughed a little when I said that, “Well . . . its more a fetish, really. Perhaps it can find its way into one of my papers. But I don’t think perverted is quite right either. More fetishist.” She was smiling, being clever.
“It really is normal dad. I doubt there isn't a man in the world that hasn't . . .you know. . . Pervert indicates 'per-version,' - it's latin - per- ‘out' or 'not' and -version 'right' - of doing what is not right, not normal. I’m afraid this is COMPLETELY normal. . . It has a completely different psychological source.”
She took a breath, my little psychologist was literally sparkling right now.
I could see her cheeks flush a bit as she went on, as I looked at her. She ate a few bites and then looking at me again and asked, “When is the last time you’ve been out. I mean dating dad?”
I was silent.
“No. Really. I am interested.”
“Not since my wife died.”
I hadn’t even mentioned that to her. I knew she knew.
“And how long is that?”
“Fourteen months now, two weeks.”
“Wow. Dad. God. I’m sorry.” She paused. “That’s a long time to go without sex. No wonder. Well, you should think about it. Truth be told your interest in, uh . . . my panties (her eyes got wide) would indicate you might be ready to think about it.”
She was so calm about this. I don’t really think she even cared. She was teasing me.
I nodded my head.
I looked at her now, her head was turned to one side and I followed the path of her collar bone beneath the edge of her top peeking through blonde hairs.
“Daddy could you spot me?”
She poked her head into my study later that evening.
“I’m upping my weights and need a spotter.”
She had changed somewhat and was wearing a shorter top so that I could see where her sweats set which was down right at her hips. She was all in pink.
She lay on the bench press and I stood right at the top end stradling the bench. Her head came down to the edge of my open legs. It seemed close, very intimate to me. I stood there with my legs open around the bench she was looking up at me smiling. I could see the muscles of her arms tense as she pressed the weight up - all concentration, breathing out as she pressed, then resting the weight in its cradle. I simply held my hands out ready to catch the weight should she falter. Her spotter.
She effortlessly lifted the weight, up then down, gradually slowing, working harder as she counted - seven times. I watched her breathing, the expanse of her white tummy tensing and releasing with each effort. She rested for a short period, before another seven, and one more. The sweat forming on her upper lip. Her legs were open on each side of the bench as well and I could see she had been sweating. Her sweats were discolored between her legs and I could smell her. There was actually the softest scent of pussy in the air, I knew the smell - and of her sweat. She did her three sets and I stood dutifully, spotting her.
“There,” and I stepped back as she sat up and spun around on the bench.
She was looking at me, winded, eyeing me. I was developing a slight erection. My trousers were bulging lightly and she seemed to notice but I did not want to do anything to call attention. I simply stepped back myself.
"Is there anything else you need. Is that all?”
She looked at me again, smiling.
“Uh, yeah. Hold my feet while I do sit ups.”
She lay on another bench that inclined so that her feet were above her head. She lay on the bench with her knees bent and held open. I sat at the top, my legs on either side, and held her feet tightly between my legs. She worked hard when she was in the gym.
With her legs apart and her body on an incline down to the floor away from me, her top fell up higher to just beneath her breasts, her tummy was shining with sweat now, and her legs were splayed directly in front of me, wet from front to back in a line between her legs.
The smell of her was unmistakable. She did something like fifty sit ups but I was not counting. I was watching her, the shine of her skin, her hair falling back onto the floor and rising behind her shoulders, the tensing of her wet abs, flexing with each effort, and the patch of wetness between her legs.
She paused in the sitting position, and smiled at me, and said softly, “Like the way I smell?”
"I mean you seemed to like it from what I could see. Earlier. Right?!" Wicked girl.
She was practically laughing now.
I went crimson, and the unmistakable smell of her was all around us. "Cruel girl."
She continued, “I get kind of aroused when I work out.”
“It’s an aphrodisiac. . . Arouses me . . . You didn’t answer me.”
I was still holding her feet.
“Well. You like it?”
I simply said, “Yes.”
I was so fully erect now that it was pressing into my pants at an odd angle and needed to be adjusted, but I couldn’t as I was still holding her feet and she was looking right at me.
She did ten more situps, legs held wide, and then she was sitting up again looking into my eyes and smiled, smiling at my yes. “Ok then.”
And she swung herself around and I quickly turned from her and adjusted myself and asked, “Is that all?”
“That was great,” she said. “Thanks.”
Next morning she was in her usual boypants and half top. All in white. She had coffee ready for me. Her hair was all tussled. She hadn’t showered.
And I noticed when she brought my coffee to me this morning she stood a little closer to me than normal. I could smell her again. This was purposeful. I felt myself harden as she held out my cup.
As we sipped our coffee, she complained about having a little heartburn. She explained that she had had a little scotch from my cabinet before she went to bed and it seemed to settle wrong. She asked me if I had anything for it and I didn’t.
I said, “I could rub it. That sometimes helps.”
Jesus god, she’s practically a doctor. What was I thinking ‘I could rub it.’ I continued, steeled myself and pressed on. “No uh, your breast . . . just your breastbone. I rub you there and just below into your intestines, it helps.” I sounded almost reasonable.
She looked at me, flicking her eyebrows, “Ok.”
And we moved over onto the sofa in the living room and I sat on one end of the sofa. She lay at my side and settled her head into my lap. Not a really well thought out plan because I in fact was a little bit hard, and there was no way she would not recognize that with her head now laying right in my lap. I adjusted her so she was down a little bit, but still. . .
She was looking up at me, biting her lip a little, her wide eyes. Her blonde hair lay spread out on my lap. Compliant. Being daddy’s little girl. “Ok, what do I do.”
“You just relax and close your eyes. Here put your hands like this,” and I moved each of her soft hands to her belly. She let me move her into position.
“There. Now I just . . . if this is ok?”
And I lay my hand right between her breasts, touching the breastbone running up from her tummy to her neck. Tracing that narrow line with my finger tips I ran my hand up and down her center in a straight line. I could not believe I was touching her like this.
“Mmmmm,” she cooed. “That feels nice.”
She kept her eyes closed and relaxed into the couch. I continued to stroke her up and down up and down, widening my fingers so that after awhile the flat of my hand running through her center so the edges of my hand now were grazing her breasts, soft, rising on each side.
“Here now a little lower, down into your stomach,” and I let my fingers drift lower along her body until it touched her skin.
Sorry. I was ready to stop.
“No its just that your hands are cold. Here.”
And she turned and took my hands in hers to warm them, so there we were. Her laying with her head in my lap, turning toward me so her cheek was laying on my cock, both her hands wrapped round mine stroking my fingers.
“There that’s better.” And she shifted herself a little higher and began to lift her half top just a little higher so the bottom was bunched up around the bottom of her breasts.
“This is helping I think.” And she closed her eyes again. “Here you can rub me up under my top. That will be a little better I think.”
Her hands fell back to her belly. I blinked, looking down at her top pulled up and head turned to the side away from me, thinking of what she just had said.
I lay my hand at her tummy. “I’ll start here," I croaked.
She smiled, “your hands are warm.”
“Good.” I could barely speak. My cheeks burning.
And I stroked her tummy at the top, just above her navel and drew small circles with my hand there, tippling her soft skin with my finger tips. And then, I began to let my hand rise higher and up beneath her top for the first time looking at her. She made no move.
And I continued to rise higher and higher through her center following the breast bone to her collar. My heart was beating madly, and my hand was trembling but I continued. Her top rose higher still and I could see her bare breasts almost to her nipples and still she just lay there contentedly. Smiling. Eyes closed.
I let my hands open a little wider too, I let them graze her breasts a little more freely, watching her closely still she did not move a muscle. Just soft little moans and silence as she settled into my lap.
I let my hand fall back down to her tummy, and began to stroke her navel and then below her navel pressing into her abdomen feeling the bone of her hips and then back beneath her shirt. My hand wider and flat up through her center. I let my hand this time wander off center. I had to see, I could barely breath. What was I doing?
Just yesterday she had watched me smelling her panties. And now. Again. What was I doing? Yet, I let my hand wander off the center and caress her breast lightly slowly and softly one side and then the other. Not touching the nipple but the swell of her breast from the top across the side and the bottom cupping my hand around her breast, before falling down onto her tummy. Skin to skin, the warmth of her rising around me.
I rubbed her over and over sliding my hands down her sides, letting my fingers wander over her breasts. One then the other, her soft flesh yielding my touch. Little squeezes, not hard but a pressing of my fingers into her. On a few, very few occaissions I let my fingers close around her breasts and then touching, just letting the edge of my hand slide along the edge of her nipples, feeling the rise of flesh there.
And after about ten more minutes, she opened her eyes and looked at me. I was utterly breathless, unable to talk, my hands falling and resting upon her tummy. Unable to look her in the eye. Her top was almost completely up around her breasts.
She looked at me with a that-was-interesting grin, knowing that she knew what I did just then.
But all she said was, “Thanks, it helped I think.”
And she lifted herself up on the sofa, turned herself so she was not sitting next to me, and tugged her top back down around herself which had been clinging up around her breasts. Her cheeks were flushed.
“Thanks she said again.”
I confidently added, Yeah, I’m good at massage. I’ll have to give you a full body rub sometime.
She kissed me on the cheek.
The opportunity of the morning she had 'heartburn' did not present itself for quite awhile after that, but I relived it each and every day thereafter. And when I looked at her in the morning the feeling of titillation that rose in my cheeks was something I had never felt before.
Her manner never seemed to change. She was ever relaxed, casual, comfortable with her body. But she seemed to enjoy playing these games with me. I sensed she liked her effect on me. She liked to see me flush and stammer, she was wearing her small little outfits, her nightshirts were getting a little shorter in the evening. She was standing closer, she bit her lower lip and tipped her head and gave me sideways glances. But was it just a game?
The event which seemed to be a watershed for me, mainly because it lifted me to such heights and dashed me to such a low happened on a morning that was very similar to the heartburn incident.
It was another morning, and today she was not wearing her boypants, but a little baby doll nightie that was so sheer that I could just see the brown stain of her nipples through the fabric. These were appearing on occasion, so gradually I don’t even remember when it started, but this morning she stood there in her baby doll. She wore a pair of loose bloomers beneath them, equally thin so that I could see the crack of her ass rising from between her legs when her back was to me. I couldn’t take my eyes off her this morning. Her smell was intoxicating.
But she was quiet, frowning slightly and I took the bait, “What’s wrong?”
She looked at me, “I went to the doctor a few weeks ago for something and he gave me some medicine.”
“Baby. What is it?” I was genuinely worried.
“Oh, its not that, its nothing. It’s a cut, a little cut. . . on my bottom, and it got infected. I need to put on an antiseptic cream, but I’m pretty sure I’m not putting it on right, cause it’s not getting better. This is pretty weird but could you help.”
“Uh, sure. Where is it?”
“Like I said right on my bottom. My butt," and she pointed around to her backside.
“Sure. I guess I can help. What do you want me to do.”
“To apply it.”
My heart was leaping into my throat. I had visions of seeing her bare bottom, and of placing my hands, touching her, rubbing her bare skin.
“Wait her five minutes then go into the bathroom. I’ll get ready and be in there. That way when you come in, it’ll be easier. I won’t be so embarrassed.”
I sat in the kitchen, laughing *em-bare-assed* my mouth dry, my heart pounding, envisioning what lay ahead. I had fantasies of helping her every day.
Five Minuets - EXACTLY - and I rose from the chair and padded my way into her bathroom.
She was sitting on the counter wearing just a thin white silk robe that was set high up on her thighs and opening slightly at the middle. I was looking up between her legs which were held close together. She was looking at me, sitting there on the counter as I entered. I went in and sat on the toilet.
“OK,” I said. “Ready.”
“I can’t find it.”
“Can’t find what?”
“The medicine. I can’t find it. I think I left it at work.” She was rising to leave. “But thanks anyway I’ll figure something out,” and she walked out of the bathroom.
Then she got ready and went to work.
Later that evening when I asked her about it she said, “Oh yeah.” She laughed. “I took care of that. I did leave it at work, and I had my office mate, Jessica, do it for me. She thought it was just as weird as you did. So. It’s fine.”
And next morning I stupidly asked again, and she just said, “You know what I think its clearing up now. Thanks for asking.”
Now I didn’t even know if any of this was even true or not.
I was masturbating furiously now. And she was my sole fantasy, and I could not help it. I could not control myself. I was still washing her panties, drinking in her scent. It was the one thing I had unfettered access to. The one thing in my life I controlled.
The sensuousness of the fabrics, the smells - silk and satin, nylon, lace edges - it was beginning to have a massively obsessive impact on me. She was all I could think about. I was taking her panties during the day now to my room and using the silk fabrics to rub my skin, slippery and soft, sliding the satins along my cock, smearing her scent on my skin, until I came in ribbons into the fabric, catching my cum and using the fabric to wipe myself clean as I lay in my room before washing them - her scent and mine. Picturing her opening her robe. Thinking about the feel of her small breasts on my fingers, and her smell. Picturing her red panties that morning. Of not letting me rub her bottom and my endless fantasy visions of doing just that.
There was one evening which at the beginning of her living with me would have seemed utterly bizarre, but in light of our evolving history, seemed now comically normal.
I was sitting in the study reading some publications, taking some notes. I had on my bifocals. She came into the study wearing only the smallest set of matching panties and bra. Her small frame glowing in the doorway. I looked up at her and froze as she said simply, “Have you seen Tuesday?”
“What?” I could not take my eyes off her small frame as she leaned against the doorway. I could see flowers on her panties and bra, a sheer transparent tan webbing between the petals. The tan was her skin.
“Tuesday! My days of the week panties. Tuesday is missing.”
I in fact still had some underwear of hers in my room, which I had reserved for later tonight. Shit. I didn’t notice one of the pairs had writing.
“They must, uh, be in the laundry still. I have some stuff in the wash.” I lied. I went back to reading, glancing at her as she remained there.
She looked at me, a smirk on her face. “I checked that already.”
She turned to leave, and as she did said, “I’m sure they’ll turn up.”
My mind was all in a muddle now. I was hot, I loosened my collar. I tried to continue reading, but could not get her out of my mind. Why would she ask me about her panties? What was she doing?
I began to think of her, running through various pictures of her in my mind, the feeling of her breasts, her panties. Her scent. I was thinking about her just now standing in my room. I could still see her there. I kept looking at the spot. I'll check I thought.
I silently went to my room because in fact they were likely in my room where I hid them. I tended to keep some of her panties under my pillow. And sure enough there was 'Tuesday.'
I took them in my hand. They had not been washed yet, and I brought them to my nose. Wonderful! My heart began beating in my chest, I wanted to take them to her right then, to go into her room and take them to her. Did she need them?
I began to change, put on my pyjamas, with 'Tuesday' laying on my pillow. I lay on my bed and slid my cock out hard in my hand wrapping the panties around my cock, silky soft sliding its whole length. I began thinking of Sara laying in her room right now, the way she had looked when she stood in my study, and I set the panties back down on the bed and stood again.
I'm going to take them to her and I headed off to her room my heart in my throat. I had never gone to her room at night. I was in a heat. Did not know what she would be wearing. I stood outside the door and rapped lightly.
"Here they are, I found them. They were still in the dirty pile." I was breathless, stupidly standing with her panties in my hand.
She was laying on her bed, a wall of pillows at one end, wearing only a half top reading a book, papers spread out on the bed. Her knees were up touching, her feet spread out on the bed so that I could see the rose panties she had worn in the study peeking from between her legs, and I sat on the end of the bed by her feet looking up between her legs still holding 'Tuesday' in my hand. My hand was shaking, and I did not even know why.
"Here. Here they are. Did you need them?"
And she brought her knees down sideways, turned herself to a half sitting position, sort of a covering of herself but still reclining on the bed facing toward me so I could still see the expanse of her thighs. And I handed them to her.
She let them hang from one finger, let them dangle before my eyes. Mischief in her eyes. "They're still dirty? Noooo. . . I don't NEED them. I just had every day but that one, and thought it was weird."
She was holding them in her hand looking at them then me, and then playfully tossed them back at me again.
"Silly. You can wash them," and she casually twisted herself back around onto her stomach, so that I was looking down at the small of her back and ass on the bed. She began looking at her papers spread out on the bed ignoring me.
I stayed where I was, "What are you reading?"
She looked back at me over her shoulder. What am I doing? I thought. She was making not the least effort to cover herself, almost as if I were not in the room.
"Oh, Just parts of my disertation. Not really correcting, just checking flow." She shrugged, "The usual."
I blurted out, "Would. Would you like a shoulder rub? . . I mean you said you were kind of sore this evening."
She Laughed, brushed her hair back on her shoulder. Smiling her teeth at me, amused at my presence, "Ha! You think I should let you?"
I scootched closer up the side of the bed and reached out my hand, "Just your shoulders, promise. You can keep reading. It looked like it was right there," and I lay my hand onto her shoulders with both hands and began to squeeze firmly the muscles right at the top of her arms, pressing down and squeezing there and then sliding in to the base of her little neck. Her small shoulders melting in my hands.
"Mmmmm. Nail on the head. Ok then. But JUST my shoulders." Her eyes batting back at me.
"I told you, I'm good at this."
"Oh, Mmmm, you did. I still have that rain check on a body rub."
"I can do that."
"Um, lets stick with shoulders, tonight. . . Mind if I keep reading?"
"Thanks, this is nice. Here I'm going to put on some music."
She reached across to her nightstand and pressed a switch. I thought, this is a dream.
I continued to kneed her shoulders working the length of muscles from her arms to her neck, and then up her neck into the line of hair and pressing my fingers into the edges of her head and neck. Her hair falling around my hands as I pressed into her, it felt so wonderful. Her soft warm flesh. As I squeezed and continued to loosen the muscles, she let her head fall between her shoulders and began to settle herself down into the bed, her shoulders arched up on her elbows, her head hanging down onto the bed.
She was groaning now, "God, I am tight. Mmmmm."
I pressed a thumb deep under her shoulderblade and ran it to the center of her back.
"God that feels so good. Tingles," as she let herself drop flat onto the mattress with her arms at each side. "Keep going, do my back now."
And with that invitation I stroked her shoulders, pressing them until they were soft, and then lower working the muscles of her back over her thin top lower and lower reaching bare skin at just above her panties. I was sitting on the bed close beside her now. Wrapping my hands across her rib cage and pressing in to her spine. Working her muscles slowly, gradually, and pressing, rubbing her steadily.
And I stared at her ass. Eyeing the large rose patterns on her panties, lace edging and at the nylon webbing between the rose patterns that were see through, so trasparent I could clearly see the line of her ass. What was I doing? My cock was hard again pressing in my pyjamas. I had to position myself to keep it from falling out the fly, but keeping my hands on her the whole time. I was in heaven.
Pressing my hands outward from her spine on each side was a little harder with the fabric at the middle which kept me from being able to do it right. She lifted her head up, looking back at me, "You know, if you want, you can just rub my back underneath, on my skin?"
"Here," and before I could answer, she reached back and grabbed the bottom hem of her top, lifted her self up from the bed and pulled it upward and then over her head with her back to me, and tossed it beside her on the bed and then pushing all the papers off to the side as well. She lay there flat out on the bed before me.
"There. That's better right," she cooed to me, laying with her head sideways on the bed smiling as she look back at me.
Her head was tipped toward me, her blonde hair fallen around her shoulders and down her bare back which was exposed to me, her long legs, her feet hanging over the bottom edge of the bed.
I softly stroked and tippled her skin, sliding my hand over her, so warm. Feeling her shoulders, the ridges down her spine, her narrow waist, the edge of her panties, drawing a line across the small of her back.
At one point I let my hands slide down her sides running along the length of her from under her arms to each hip, and then ever so lightly at each pass tipping my hands around to touch just the edge of her breasts. I wanted to feel her again, I had to, if just to see what she would do. Would she let me touch her like last time?
Reaching, reaching I let my fingers press her breasts from the side and she lay quietly, eyes closed. I was so nervous, crossing this line shaking, continuing to lightly stroke her back and then braver still to reach further, further beneath her, just to touch her breasts. Just to see if she would let me.
She didn't move. But as my one hand pressed around cupping her breast, cradling her nipples between my fingers, without pretense now she said softly, "I don't think that is my back."
I was in such a state, I was breathing in ragged gasps, was seeing spots in my eyes. Seeing pure lust. I just said, "Sorry, I uh . . ."
But then she did not move in any way, not to push me away, not to move away. My hand in fact was still stroking her breast, squeezing the soft flesh in my hand. I simply let my hand slowly drift back to the small of her back drawing circles on her there.
She smiled at me, "This is nice. So relaxing."
So I simply set there stroking the length of her back from shoulders and neck, pushing her hair out of the way, right to the bottom edge of her panties in long sweeps with the flat of my hand for a while and then worked on the muscles right at her waist, the small of her back; and then rubbing her feet and legs one at time. And up higher to her shoulders again, stroking her breasts freely my hands wandering on her. We set like this for about twenty minutes, my hands gliding over her soft skin, legs and feet, her resting, sort of sleeping, pressing her body into the bed arms spread out, legs splayed. Silent reverie, filled with the sounds of soft music and of her soft moans and squeeks. Reverie.
I kept looking at the only part of her that was still covered. I wanted to rub her butt, to touch her there. My mind was whirling, I asked, "How is that cut?" And I lay my hand right on her panty clad behind as I said it.
She whispered out as if rising from sleep, "What?"
"Remember the cut that needed medicine." I was still stroking her bottom as we spoke.
"Oh, yeah, it's fine," she breathed out, letting me touch her there.
"You remember how you wanted me to put medicine on you, I wasn't sure. . ." I did not know how to proceed with this line of conversation.
She opened her eyes, looking at me, my hands lay at her hip.
". . . Uh, How you were going to have me apply it. The medicine I mean."
She furrowed her brow, "I was just going to lift my robe up . . ." And she opened her eyes a little wider, smiling at me, swated at my leg with her one arm. "You. You are funny, you know that. You want to see my butt, don't you?"
I was getting embarrassed could feel my face flush. "No, its just that I didn't know if you were really . . . If you . . . really even had medicine. Maybe you were just teasing . . ."
She let out an, "uhhh" and then "You think I was teasing you," Her mouth was open in mock surprise. "I'm not the one sniffing girls panties, or copping feels, or. . . and she turned her head away from me, "sitting in someones room."
"Well sweet, you're the one laying here in just your underwear letting me. . . You're, you're teasing me now."
She turned her head to me, fluttering her eyes. "Hmmm, my daddy can't resist me." Then reaching down and pulling her panties higher, lifting them up at her hip so that there was this little crease running between her legs, the pout of her pussy, her cunt.
"You like the way I look? Want to see my *cut* dad? I HAD medicine. Go ahead, check. There's a scar."
I was looking at her panties.
"Go ahead, check. I'll show you where it is."
I began to reach lower. She looked back at me, smiling, "Now I'm really teasing you. But to prove a point."
She was lifting herself up and turning a little more just then. She was letting me see her bare breasts, hanging down I could see the edge of her tiny nipples poking out as she looked back at me. So cute I thought. I simply wanted her.
I took the top of her panty and began to pull it down, tugging at the hem, sliding them to the bottom of her perfect little ass, down to the line across her thighs, until I saw little soft hairs springing up into view.
I next was about to grab them at the hip and was going to try slide them even lower when Sara says, "Whoa, that's enough sailor. There, Look! My right cheek. Right there," Her trill little voice, sing songing in my ear.
She touched it, "Theeeere, see it, the red patch there. My cut. It's healed now like I said."
I was still staring at her ass, at the red spot right there on her right cheek. She was naked from her shoulders down down down to the little line of panties crumpling at the line of her pussy. I let my hand rest on her thighs. I remember thinking this is why I came in here.
"See. . . and you thought I was teasing you," and she let herself drop back down on the bed.
And I began to rub her lower back again, leaving her panties where they were and then let both hands drift lower so they were right on her bare ass. She looked back at me. I had to touch her there.
"What are you doing?"
"The Backrub." I said.
"Those aren't my back."
I kept tracing my finger over her hips, clasping my fingers right around her hip bone and sliding my finger tips, tippling her skin lower across the sides of her ass, and drawing wide circles along her ass. Looking down at the panties crumpled in a line at the top of her legs.
Her legs were together, but I could see down between her legs in a small space there. Just the start of pink little lips, I could see her puss pouting between her legs. I wanted to lay my hand between her legs, and I began to press my fingers down through the crack of her ass until I was just touching the pucker of her anus with my finger.
I answered her, "I think its singular."
"That! is not my back." I had her pressed to the bed with my finger held over her anus, and I began pressing her there. The tease was too much, I could no longer control myself. I had to touch her, feel her, press into her.
She began to move away, to slide up the bed away from me, to swing her legs around to the other side of the bed from where I was sitting and turn to the edge of the bed with her back to me. "I think the shows over."
She rose from the bed and stood for a moment facing me drinking in my lust. Me still sitting there in my pyjamas, her seeing my erection tenting straight up between my legs, tenting the fabric. The twinkle in her eyes enjoying the effect she was having. I knew the game now.
Her panties were down in the back, and set low right at the top of her pussy from the front. Short hairs, the glimpse of short hairs. She was not even trying to cover her breasts. She reached down, casually even slowly pulled up her panties and positioned them, and then reached across the bed toward me, both arms extending down and across the bed reaching to her nightshirt while letting her breasts fall, hang right in front of my face, and lifting herself back up smiling at me and sliding the shirt over her head.
"Maybe I do tease you a little?"
Some evenings we spent winding down before bed, usually on Fridays leading into the weekend, sipping a little wine at the table and nibbling some slices of bread with olive oil. Most evenings were filled with small talk, and sometimes we talked endlessly. God we got along. Touching into one another’s lives ever more deeply, until we truly became aware of the other. I was feeling myself opening, my thoughts reaching back before the white flashes of pain that had so filled my life. And there was a certain eroticism creeping into our evening conversation.
Tonight we were working on an entire bottle of wine, which was not so unusual for me but it was for her. Tonight she was keeping right up with me, her eyes were mellow, we were happy and our patter was bewildering.
“Yes. Believe me, when I was your age, it was so different then. I was so different. There was no HIV or AIDs, drinking wasn’t alcoholism. We didn’t even know smoking was bad for you.”
“There were still sexually transmitted diseases then dad!”
“But we didn’t think about things like that. At least I didn’t. It was all freer somehow.”
“We have more to worry about. I’m the first to admit that my life is probably different than what if it had been twenty or thirty years ago which was your life dad.”
“How do you mean?”
My life was a life that for some reason had that fear in it. The fear you talk about. I remember being afraid, when I was little I took it to heart. I felt it inside. I was always told from all sides ‘not to give it up.’ From mom my step-dad.”
“I never would have said things like that. Well, maybe . . . some.”
“Well it probably would have been better dad. I dreamed of you coming to get me. You were always that white knight that was going to come and get me out of the locked tower. You never came dad. And all I got were lectures of fear. I saw you that one time. One time dad.” She had a tear in her eye. I never saw that before.
“I’m sorry. You don’t . . .”
“Look at me, I’m pretty, right? It’s always the message when you’re pretty. That’s the message for pretty girls. No! No! No!”
She looked at me, waiting for a response. I didn’t know what to say just then - to say she was pretty. I remained still.
“Right? It’s just . . . oh, never mind. You’re my dad.”
“Your beautiful” I stammered.
“. . . I am. God dammit I am. I always hear how pretty I am. Always.” She said it with disgust just then. I was taken aback. “And that led to boys, all boys, all the time trying to . . . you know, get into my pants.” She paused, looked at me, "My panties."
This conversation tonight was taking an interesting turn, and I was feeling very guilty just then. I looked away.
“Anyway. I got really good at saying no. It’s one thing I know how to do. I said NO. No. No. Like I was supposed to. Like the good little girl. Always no. And anyway you get used to NO and sometimes you don’t even know why you are saying no. I ended up being eighteen, thinking to myself do I say no all my life?”
“And then there was this guy.” And she let out this laugh up into the air. It was loud, a surprise and I jumped. This was a side of her I had never seen. She put her hand over her mouth. “He was so into me, so much of what I wanted. But I went out with him, made out with him, teased him. But no. no no.”
She was twisting the fabric of her top. Pulling it up and laying it on the table flattening it out.
“And one day, he took me out. Beautiful roses. We ate at this wonderful restaurant, he was so wonderful, so smart so charming. That night he told me he wanted to make love to me, to feel me, taste me, touch me.”
I could not believe she was saying this, I simply nodded my head and sipped the wine. Got another bottle as she kept talking as I went into the kitchen.
“And I wanted to say yes. Everything was yes. But - no! I had to say no. He was in the car, he went silent. Said nothing. I looked over at him, knew he was mad. I said if you love me you will wait for me. He just said, wait for what?”
“And when I got out of the car he did not kiss me and he did not even look at me. I got out and he said under his breath but i know it was so I could hear it - ice queen, and he screeched off into the night. And that became my nickname the last three months of twelfth grade. Ice Queen. It doesn’t help I have this blonde hair.” She twirled it in her hand. “Ice.”
Her top fell back down off the table.
"And then the very next guy I went out with, spent all his time trying to get into my pants. And you know what I let him. I didn't say no. I didn't want to, I didn't like it at all. So I say no when it would have been wonderful, and yes when it . . . it's just confusing. And then I get so horny I can't stand it. I crawl right out of my skin. I think you know something about that."
She winked at me.
"God, I don't know what I'm trying to say."
She took a long sip of wine, "I AM the ice queen."
“But you are not, not like that at all.”
“You don’t know me.”
“I know some things about you.” We shared a look with one another that included probably things like my panty fetish, the heartburn incident and the medicine incident, my massage. I believed that anyway.
“You weren’t in my life were you? What did you know. Where the fuck were YOU?” She shook her head. She was sad now.
“Well, you don’t know me either. It’s not like I didn’t want to be there. I wanted to.”
“I know the stories dad.”
“From your mother?
“Yeah. . .There’s some things I know about you now too for instance.”
I acknowledged her wicked jibe but continued, “No. I mean. Do you know why I never saw you after your mother left me?”
“Yes. She told me you never wanted to see us again. You were too busy had to move away for a job, and . . .”
“Other way around sweetie.” My voice was rising, “ Did your mother tell you she went to COURT with a bunch of lies and got a restraining order against me. I was forbid contact by that Court. Did she tell you that.” My voice was cracking, now I had the tears in my eyes.
Sara’s eyes were wide, and filling with tears.
“That’s right. Yeah. She got what SHE wanted. I would have been arrested if I saw you.”
“But then how come when I was ten. . .”
“That was a friend of mine and your mothers. He arranged it for me. Just because I was so sad. He did it for me. You never told your mother right. Like I said.”
She shook her head.
“Like I said then. I told you it was our secret.”
“I thought you were going to rescue me.” She looked down and she said more to herself, “You didn’t.”
“Then she turned you all against me. But then so did all my family, everyone everywhere. Your grandparents. My father. That’s my whole life. So that’s what she told you . . . “ I stopped I didn’t want to go there.
“I didn’t know dad.”
I was silent. I was angry staring at the table. The room was filled with silence.
She took my hand, “What were you like then? Dad. I’m here now.”
I looked up at her, calming, “What do you mean?”
“When you were my age I mean what was it like. You said free, and innocent. And ignorant too.” She laughed at that.
“Oh when I was a child, your age. (She laughed at that too) I WAS so innocent. I was thin like you too. In fact, it was that great naivete I had that led to me being so taken advantage of all the time. I felt I was always being cheated. But then did it really matter. I loved life.”
I looked over at her, expectant. She was all listening
“Think about it. You don’t know that . . I loved to write poetry, even painted.”
“It was so wonderful. I painted I wrote, I had nothing. Owned nothing. I loved women. God I loved the senses. Let me tell you, poetry class is a great place to meet women.” I looked up at the ceiling. “There was no past, no future. Just the day. Just reading. Just . . .”
Sara was leaning forward in her chair, “Tell me about that. That’s it! I was just the opposite. I had everything planned out for me. I had so much to do, so scheduled. Always a schedule. All this education, all this effort and work. And I got no one, my social life is so . . .”
“You are a beautiful, sensuous . . . “ I stopped there. “But, so was my life - just the same. When you are free, people see that. They use you. No one wants to be with you long term. You got nothing, they don’t want that. That was my discovery. So we’re the same.”
“Not at all. You were open to life. I feel like I was always so closed. No. No. No.”
“All open and all closed, it’s the same. We are both afraid of choosing. Afraid of our choices. Always yes and always no is the same thing.”
We stared at each other. We were sitting now leaning toward one another, just our glasses of wine between us. Our knees were practically touching. A second open bottle sitting off to the side. The light shining low from the living room into the kitchen. The sun was setting. I reached out my hand and lay it over hers. She did not take it away.
“I’m glad you called. Came back into my life Sara. I’m not the best person in the world, in fact I’m probably one of the terriblest.”
“That’s not a word dad.” She looked at me smiled the freshest purest smile. She squeezed my hand. "Your not the terriblest." My big hand wrapping around hers pressing her fingers against the table, stroking her thumb.
“I did love those days though.”
“Tell me something. Tell me a story from then. Tell me about one of those girls that USED you. And then she threw her head back and said HA! "But not mom.”
I had to think.
“Anything. I don’t care. What was it like to say only yes! Yes. Yes. Yes.” Sipping another glass of wine, her cheeks were bright her eyes sparkled. Her teeth were whiter than I had ever seen them.
She turned her small hand over on the table and let me stroke her palm.
“Well whenever I think back. I have one story. Laura. I don’t know her last name. Poetry class.”
“Ah. Poetry. That was my mistake. I never got to meet you at poetry. I was so busy in biology.”
“Yes. A very different energy. I never darkened the door of biology. Anyway. One day she came to class wearing this unbelievable pair of jet black jeans. They were so tight, low on the hips before low riders were even something anybody knew existed. It had the shortest little zipper right at her . . . and she had just bought them. Or, I’d never seen them before. And she wore half tops - like yours.” I squeezed her hand flirtatiously as I said that. (next Chap 2)