Chapter 6: Happy birthday, baby girl

Sheri - The moment I noticed that Dad wanted to fuck me.

It was a quiet Sunday morning, and steam still clung to the bathroom mirror as I stepped out of the shower.

The light from the window caught the edges of my damp blond hair, clinging to my shoulders in slow-moving strands.

My reflection portrayed my blond hair doused, dripping wet as it stuck to my shoulders and back. The soft curve of my full pink lips, the clean line of my brows still freshly shaped from yesterday.

My complexion seemed to be getting fairer as I stayed in the house. Grabbing my breasts, I pushed them up; they were a perky C-cup.

I reached for the lotion, squeezing it into my palm, and slowly began working it into my legs. Each motion helped ground me, calm me. The butterflies in my stomach weren’t gone, but at least they fluttered a little more gently now.

Just as I was settling into the rhythm, there was a light knock on the door.

“Hey. You in there?” Dad’s voice.
“Yes, ” I said softly, my voice barely above the quiet hum of my thoughts. I didn’t look away from the mirror, still focused on smoothing lotion over the length of my legs, skin still slightly damp, the motion slow and calming. I moved deliberately, trying to stay in this moment, centered in the rhythm of getting ready.

Then came another knock.

“Sheri, I need to use the bathroom,” Dad called, his voice loud and direct, like always.

I closed my eyes briefly, sighed. “I’m busy.”
“Honey ... seriously, I really need to go.”
“Pick the lock,” I said flatly, switching legs, dragging the lotion upward with long strokes. The doorknob rattled, followed by a faint muttered curse under his breath.

A few seconds later, the door clicked open.

Without asking again, Dad slipped through the narrow gap in the door, avoiding eye contact, and made his way straight to the toilet. I turned slightly, facing away, my expression fixed in practiced neutrality. Some things were better left unspoken. Apparently, he’d just rolled out of bed.

I kept going, moving the lotion from my collarbone to my shoulders, then down each arm in slow circles, methodical and quiet.

Behind me, I heard him shift, one hand landing on the wall for balance. The sound of running water filled the room, echoing slightly in the small space.

The quiet was broken by the soft, unmistakable sound of him relieving himself, followed by a long, involuntary sigh. A kind of release that had nothing to do with privacy or dignity. Just ... morning reality.

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught him glance over, brief, unbothered, like this was just another Tuesday.

His expression wasn’t annoyed, not exactly. Just ... that particular Dad look. The one that said, “I’m your father. I’ve seen worse. I should get priority in this house, no matter what you’re doing.”

I kept my gaze on my reflection, jaw tight, lotion slick on my hands. The moment hovered between absurd and familiar.

By now, I was working the lotion over my breasts, taking my time, not rushing, not skipping anything. The air was still warm from the shower, and my hands moved instinctively. I spent extra time rubbing my breasts in clockwise and anti-clockwise directions. So much so that my nipples became stiff; moaning at my touch, I watched Dad in the corner of my eye. He was watching me intently, and from what I could see, he had finished peeing and was stroking his cock.