My Daughter Is Sadie Hawkins
Copyright© 2026 by Lubrican
Chapter 1
Coming of Age Sex Story: Chapter 1 - We were locked down by Covid. My daughter's heart was broken because she couldn't ask her boyfriend to the Sadie Hawkins dance at the school that was now closed. I told her we'd dress up and have dinner and the dance at home. She found my late wife's favorite, very sexy dress and wore it to the dance. while we were dancing she said had decided to give her virginity to her boyfriend after the dance. And now all she had was me.
Caution: This Coming of Age Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/ft Consensual Heterosexual Fiction Incest Father Daughter First Masturbation Oral Sex Petting Pregnancy
It was April of 2020. If you’re older than ten you remember what the world was like in April of 2020. Everybody was scared to death that this new virus would kill them or the ones they loved. They would decide, much later, that what the government told the populace at that point in time was, depending on what they believed, well-intentioned, a product of panic, or outright bullshit and lies.
But we didn’t know that in March of 2020. We lived in Cheyenne, Wyoming and all we knew was that we were locked in our homes and our normal lives were on the back burner for nobody knew how long. It didn’t affect me all that much. I’m an architect and my job is to look at the plans of other architects to see if there are any flaws in them that could cause issues in the future ... like, say, the building might collapse if there was even a tiny earthquake tremor. I could work at home because I could get all my work sent to me digitally, over the internet.
For Caitlin, though, it was an unmitigated disaster, on the level of Armageddon. Caitlin is my daughter, was sixteen, and had a bevy of girlfriends who she anticipated playing slow pitch softball with when summer got there. The team she was on was sponsored by The Savings and Loan and they had lost five girls to one thing or another. One moved. Three were going to graduate and start their lives as adults. Jenny Frisco had already become an adult by getting pregnant. She was due to deliver about the time the first official games would start. Replacements would be decided on the first practice days and the weather was getting mild enough that they could get on the field to do that.
Except now they couldn’t.
And, what was worse, from Caitlin’s perspective, was that school was closed, which meant the Sadie Hawkins dance had been canceled. Caitlin desperately wanted to ask Trevor Wilson to that dance. They had gone on one date, which went well, in her opinion, and he’d taken her out twice since then. According to Cat, he hadn’t asked any other girls out, so she thought if she asked him to the dance she could “get something going.” Those were her exact words. My father radar lit up like crazy.
“What do you mean, ‘get something going’?” I asked, when she tearfully told me about her now ruined plans.
“Oh, Daddy,” she moaned. “You know.”
“No, I do not know,” I said. “That phrase can mean different things. I just want to know what it means to you.”
“Daddy, I’m a good girl.”
“I know you are, Sweetheart,” I said. “You’ve told me that after every date you went on. But you never said you wanted to get something going with any of those boys.”
“I don’t want to talk about this,” she said, turning her nose up.
“Were you planning on eventually having sex with this boy?” I asked, bluntly.
“I don’t want to talk about this!” she barked.
“So, you were,” I said. “Interesting,” I added.
“Daddy! Do not put words in my mouth!” she yelled.
“What did you intend to let this Trevor person put in your mouth?”
Now, I know I shouldn’t have said that. Caitlin is a sweet, innocent girl and I trusted her implicitly to make good decisions. We had talked about the birds and bees and I had told her several times that intimacy only worked well if the couple really knew each other. I had said all the things a parent is supposed to say, and not only about sex, but about most other things, too. We were buddies, as well as a father and daughter. I should have commiserated with her instead of poking her. Now she stared at me and put her hands on her hips.
“Well, Father, I did not intend to let Trevor fuck me and I did not intend to let him put his prick in my mouth, but I have now changed my mind. As soon as this fucking Covid shit is over I might even have his fucking baby!”
She stomped out of the room and I heard her bedroom door slam. It slammed hard enough I knew I should check for damage.
This is when I knew I was in serious trouble. I had never heard the words “fucking”, “prick”, or “shit” come out of her mouth, before; not once. I never cursed around her and I had taught her that using foul language only indicated a low IQ to the people who heard it. For her to machine gun me like that was unprecedented. She’d been mad at me before, but she never cursed. And, following the machine gunning, she’d also shot an artillery round at me by saying she’d let a boy she barely knew get her pregnant.
So there was a war going on and she was attacking.
I didn’t want there to be a war going on.
I went to her bedroom door and tapped.
“I’m sorry, Baby,” I said, through the door. “Come on out and we’ll talk about it.”
From inside her room I heard a sobbing scream.
“I do not want to talk to you right now!”
What could I do? I had poked the bear and now the bear was in its den, plotting to have me for dinner.
“Okay,” I said. “I love you,” I added. Even I knew how pointless it was to say that, under the circumstances. “I’m really sorry,” I ended. Then I went to try and do some work.
I couldn’t work. I was too distracted. I tried to analyze why I had said such ridiculous things. It was like answering “Does this dress make me look fat?” with “Sure does.” Even an idiot would know not to do that.
I decided to make a tuna and noodle casserole. I went to the kitchen and got the noodles in water on the stove. Then I got out the bread machine and started putting the ingredients in the tub. I paused in that to check the noodles and found a bunch of them stuck to the bottom of the pan. I had to scrape them off of the bottom with a metal spatula. When I went back to the bread making I had forgotten what step I was at. Had I added the sugar and salt? I couldn’t remember. I added them again, just in case, and then put in the flour and yeast. I closed the lid and noticed the noodles were boiling over when I heard the hiss of steam being produced. I yanked the pan off of the burner and boiling water splashed over the edge, burning the back of my hand. I yelped and set the pan down on a cold burner. I turned off the hot burner and got some ice cubes out to put in a big bowl with water so I could soak my hand and get as much heat out of it as possible, to mitigate the damage.
I had just added some ice cubes when Caitlin sashayed into the kitchen like she didn’t have a care in the world. She looked at me, came over and peered into the bowl, and said, “I don’t even want to know.”
“I burned myself,” I explained. “This is sucking the heat out of the burn.”
She looked at me.
“I guess, according to you, I do want to know,” she said, flatly.
“Oh, sorry,” I muttered.
She went to the stove next and found the noodles, which were almost liquid now, except for the part stuck to the bottom of the pan.
“I was trying to make tuna and noodles and got distracted by using the bread maker,” I explained.
“I see,” she said. She went to examine the bread maker, as if I must have screwed that up, too.
“And the bread machine is not turned on ... why?”
Her voice wasn’t mean. She wasn’t trying to make me feel stupid. I was doing a fine job of that all by myself.
She came and picked up the bowl, which made me take my hand out, which dripped all over the place.
“Follow me,” she ordered.
I did and she took me to my favorite chair, which had an oak side table by it that I had made myself, out of the wood from pallets that had been discarded. They don’t build them that way anymore because oak is now scarce, so I treasure that table. She set the bowl on the table and gestured at the chair.
“I’ll take care of supper,” she said. “You sit there and suck all the heat out of your hand.”
She turned and her ponytail swung and bounced saucily as she went back to the kitchen. Her hips, encased in form-fitting terrycloth shorts, moved up and down as she walked and I suddenly realized my little girl had a bubble butt under those shorts.
I sat and felt guilty for noticing how sexy my daughter’s ass was.
I dozed off, which put too much weight on the edge of the bowl, which tipped and dumped half a gallon of ice water in my lap. I made enough noise about it that she came to investigate. She got a towel and ignored me, concentrating, instead, on drying off the chair. She dried it so thoroughly, in fact, that she held up a silver disk.
“Huh. I found a quarter,” she observed. “I’m rich!”
“Keep it,” I snarled. “I have another one.”
“Thanks!” she said, brightly. “By the time you put dry clothes on supper should be ready. Don’t take too long. I don’t want the food to get cold.”
The ponytail bounced again and her ass cheeks wobbled up and down again as she went back to the kitchen. I went to my room and put on a pair of running shorts. It was late enough in the day that I wasn’t going anywhere. What I mean is I didn’t feel like I needed to be in street clothes anymore. I used to run two miles a day as a nod to my Army service. I ran two miles lots of days while I did a four year hitch, learning that Army life wasn’t for me.
I shrugged into a T shirt that said, “Be careful or you’ll end up in my novel” and followed my nose to the source of something that made my mouth water.
She had made my favorite meal. There was meatloaf, fried potatoes, green beans, and fresh hot rolls. I looked at the bread machine and the tub was no longer in it, making bread. It was sitting on the counter. She had let it make dough and then turned that into hot rolls. They were a little flat, because she hadn’t let the dough rise, and they were pretty dense for the same reason, but I decided to throw her a bone.
“I prefer my bread dense like this. I hate it when spreading the butter tears the bread.”
When I saw the look on her face I realized that my “compliment” had just pointed out that she had done something wrong, instead. Today just wasn’t my day.
“I’ll just sit down and shut up, now,” I said.
“That would be wise,” she said.
The food was delicious. Caitlin is a great cook and having to stay in the house had given her time to go through her mother’s old cook books, where she found written notations in the margins, and pieces of paper that had instructions on them, or reminders to the cook, or recipes, or whatever. I had found her one day just sitting and staring at one of these notes.
“Your mother wrote that,” I said.
“I know,” she said. She sniffed. “I miss her. I wish she was here.”
“I miss her, too,” I said. “I guess that’s why I saved her cook books. When I looked at them it felt almost like she was in the bathroom, maybe taking a shower, or in the utility room, doing laundry, and she’d walk into the room any minute.”
“Hard to do when you’re confined to a casket, six feet under the ground.” She said it with a bitter voice, as if it was her mother’s fault that she had undetected breast cancer long enough that it metastasized into her lungs, liver, and kidneys. They tried chemo, with radiation planned for after the chemo knocked the free-floating cancer cells out, but all the chemo did was make her horribly sick until she died. And Caitlin had to watch her mother go through that when she was only eight.
She and I had grieved, but not together. My grief was for losing things Caitlin couldn’t understand. Her grief was about losing what seemed like everything. That separation was unintended. Caitlin loved me, too, and she was the light of my life after Sherry was no longer in it. But Cat, as I nicknamed her, and I just didn’t meld. We lived together and I took care of her, and we did love each other, but it seemed off, like my life was being lived on one radio frequency and hers on a frequency two numbers down. Life was kind of fuzzy, I guess.
That lasted for four years, at which point I heard a scream and sobbing and when I found her she was in the bathroom, standing and staring into the commode. I looked and the water was bloody.
“I’m dying, like Mommy,” she bawled.
I took her in my arms, murmuring that she was fine and everything was normal, and didn’t let her go until she said she understood what I had told her. She had stopped crying, by then, but seemed to be holding onto me for dear life. I realized this hug was different. Or maybe it felt different because I hadn’t been giving my daughter hugs ... or enough hugs ... or something.
“So, we good?” I asked her as she finally stepped back.
“No. I don’t have any of the supplies you talked about,” she said. “One set of my panties is already stained and I don’t know if blood will wash out of them. I don’t want to ruin any of my other clothes.”
Soon after my wife died, I had to deal with her stuff. I kept some of it, but I had thrown out my wife’s personal things, like tampons and the hygiene spray she liked and all that. And when I thought of tampons I thought of something like that being stuffed up in my little girl’s vagina, which seemed terrible. So I called Lois, my secretary, and explained my dilemma to her. Lois is a widow who had continued to work after her husband died, more to deal with the boredom than from any financial need. She was somewhere in her sixties, though I knew enough not to ask her how old she was. She had showed up in my office door one day and said, “Mr. Sanders says you need a personal assistant. I gather that’s what they call secretaries, these days. I’m her.”
Our relationship had been a little odd. She had worked as a secretary until she started having children, so she knew how to manage things. She was almost old enough to be my mother but she only acted like that when I did something stupid. Most of the time she was just good at her job, which made me look good at my job, and I thought we liked each other at least enough to call each other “friend.” That’s assuming senior citizens ever had “friends” who were thirty years younger than them. I mean that would be like calling Johnny your friend when he was five and you were thirty. You wouldn’t have a ton of things in common.
But she didn’t complain. She also didn’t talk a lot about her own situation. She told me a little about her husband, and that she had gone back to work after a period of grieving to avoid becoming crazy as she stared at four walls. At one point I said, “You’re pretty good at your job,” and she replied, “Thank you. You’re pretty good at your job, too.”
I guess the right word to describe our relationship is “amiable.” We were amiable.
When she answered I apologized for bothering her at home, like she had a lot going on, there. We were all still getting paid and she could still process my work before I turned it in, but she wasn’t going anywhere, either. I had been worried she’d get Covid and die because she was “elderly” but so far, we had been lucky.
I just thought about what I said. I guess we were close enough that I thought of her troubles as “our” troubles. That was closer than I described.
Anyway, I apologized for disturbing her and then said, “I miss you.”
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