Ron Taylor: Hot for dad

She went outside, mounted the bike and coasted down the bill to the street below. There she stopped, halted on the sidewalk, waiting.

In ten minutes she heard the unmistakable sound of a Toyota. Cheryl pulled to the entrance of the private road; looked both ways, then zipped onto Richland Street. Sibyl wondered if it were safe to go home now. She hesitated. Could she face her father, knowing what she knew?

She pushed her bike up the drive but met her father coming down, driving his Mercedes. He stopped alongside her, leaning out the window to speak. "Hi, honey," he smiled – almost innocently, Sibyl thought…"how was your day?" She threw away her reply with a fluttery gesture. "Say, I'm going to the store, Sib – out of coffee, pipe tobacco, and all the other necessities. Is there anything you need?" There wasn't. He smiled again, and drove on down the road.

Sibyl chained her bike and clattered into the house. This time she could stomp if she wanted, and stomp she did! All the way up to her room, stopping on the way to open Daddy's bedroom door and stare at the sex-rumpled bed inside. It was empty now, the sheets cooling, but if she closed her eyes – she didn't have to close them. The scene began, almost by magic, to re-enact itself before her gaze. Cheryl, legs thrust high, breasts swollen, pinching her nipples to make them ache with a harder throbbing pain, and Daddy, kneeling between her thighs, smacking his groin against her bottom, filling her with that – that…

Sibyl could see it now, that monstrous cock. Long, wet, reddened from the friction it had found inside Cheryl's body. Thick, too, and hard, with a big purple ball set atop its shaft. She saw her father once more remove it from Cheryl's cunt, saw Cheryl hurry to twist herself round and begin sucking. That was the second act of oral sex she'd seen today, Sibyl reminded herself as she clutched the door's edge for steadiness. The first had been the doing of strangers, even though Betsy was on the verge of becoming a friend. Sibyl had come upon it by accident, and she had been shocked immeasurably by what she saw. But this – this didn't involve strangers! She didn't know Cheryl very well, and – did she even know her father?

Sibyl slammed the door and ran down the hall to her own bedroom. Tears were fighting one another in her eyes. "How could you, Daddy?" she sobbed as the teardrops began to flow. "How could you be so beastly and dirty? In front of me?"

It was like being told that Robert Redford was a closet homosexual, Sibyl thought. It was that kind of shocking discovery. Except that Redford wasn't, and she wouldn't care if he was. She'd never idolized him, or anyone else, the way she'd idolized Daddy. Even when she was a little girl, he'd been her hero.

It was natural. Her mother had died when Sibyl was five, and she'd been raised by aunts and uncles and grandparents, and sent to good, conservative Catholic schools when she was old enough to go. She only saw Daddy once in a while, when he came home from some exotic country to spend a few days with her.

But she'd followed his career. At school, her walls were papered with photos of him, with tear sheets of newspaper clippings, magazine articles, souvenirs. She was the only girl at St. Bridget's with an autographed photo of President and Mrs. Kennedy, and her daddy standing between them, one arm around Jack, the other round Jackie. She'd saved clippings, stories, reviews, interviews and spent hours pasting them into scrapbooks. She had boxes containing the carbons of all Daddy's books. Her young girlish brain had built him into a hero, an adventurous knight, chivalric, brave, dashing – boys had never interested her, because who among them could be half so exciting as her father?

He made her heart throb in joy because he was so handsome and adventuresome. Why hadn't she realized that other women would look at him with the same cast of eyes? And he'd been a widower for eleven years. Had he never once thought about sex in all that time? She couldn't know. Until today she'd never had occasion.

Oh, she didn't want to think about it even now, when it had been thrust upon her by reality! She didn't want to remember how her father had looked, naked, having sex with that cheap, trampy, big-breasted girl! And she knew that this evening she'd not sit on his lap, put her arms around his neck, and talk to him about her love for him and her desire never to be separated from him again. She wondered if she could even bear to kiss him on the mouth again, knowing that he'd kissed that.

Sibyl looked down at herself. It was no wonder boys treated her with the same disdain she had for them. Look! She let her palms glide across the big cones in the front of her blouse. Tiny. Men liked big, biiiiggggg tits – tits like Cheryl's. Even Daddy had smiled and cooed as he petted them, after they'd rutted like animals. Sibyl closed her hands over her tits and squeezed, groaning as the nipples throbbed in reply. Her tits were so small, but sometimes it seemed as if every inch of their conical thrusts was alive with sensation. She knew that her nipples were erecting inside the cups of her bra, the little pink smears dotting with goosebumps, the nips themselves stiffening.

No! Her mind screamed. No! No!!! There was a time, two or three years ago, when her body ached with the pains of growing, when she'd lie in her bed at St. Ursula's or St. Bridget's or whichever St. she'd been attending. All the lights out, her covers pulled up to the top of her head, she'd let her hands rove beneath the cotton, ankle-length nightie that was prescribed bedwear.

She'd touch herself in places that had just begun to tingle with the onset of womanhood: her breasts, then no more than little bumps of flesh capped by twin patches of pink; her neck, her earlobes, her ribcage; the insides of her thighs; and, at last, the soft, plumpening hillock between them, its little bun-like swell creased by a delicate nil along whose slit a sparse fringe of red hairs had just begun to blossom.

Sibyl sucked in her breath as she recalled those evenings of sinful pleasure. It was wrong. All the nuns said it was wrong. A girl shouldn't have urges that could be felt in her private parts. But it was easy to forget about sin when she was playing with her nipples in the dark, squeezing their points into darts of thrusting tissue, or when she'd let her fingertips glide gently up and down the inner surfaces of her slim thighs. Or when – her mind swam with the memory – she rubbed her palm back and forth, up and down, side to side on the just-fleecing rise of her cunt, the insides of her fingers digging and lingering as they stroked the lips of her young slit. A throbbing inside, a swelling, a pulsating – Sibyl knew she had a clit before she knew what it was and what it was called.

And she knew how delirious she could feel, when that clit was strummed and petted and coaxed into peeking out of its hooded sweater of flesh. When it stole forth, shy but ready, and her fingertips slid across its moist, glimmery tip until it sprang up hot and wet and each pinch of fingers was a fresh exercise in the limits of her endurance but each pinch, no matter how fierce, was also a burning invitation to do it again, but harder.

No! NO! NO!!! Again she battled with herself.

She hadn't done that – masturbated – in two or three years. Breaking the habit strained her to agony and frustration, but she'd broken the habit. She hadn't even thought about it, not in a long time. But now, as she squeezed her tits again, she knew that she was doing more than simply thinking.

Sibyl stood up. She unbuttoned her blouse and tossed it to the floor. Next her jeans. They were fashionably snug but not tight, and they dropped easily enough. She stood in bra and panties, but only for a moment. The crotch of her panties was unexpectedly wet. She touched herself there, remembering how sweet it had been once to do just that, and she could smell the musk of arousal staining her nylon undies. They'd have to be changed, anyway. She took them off, then removed her bra.