Chapter 10

She breezed in the front door at four-fifteen.

“I’m home, Dad!”

My heart actually reacted, beating faster. Damn, I’d missed her in the few hours she’d been gone!

Sia gave me a tight, tight hug, murmuring, “I missed you.”

Rising up on tiptoes, she kissed me lightly and said, “I’m gonna change.”

The afternoon passed quickly. Sia followed me around as I did chores forgotten yesterday, giving me a blow-by-blow recounting of her sleepover Friday night; Robin’s date, the movie, “Brooklyn was really good, Dad. You should see it,” and some new makeup she now needed. However, despite her apparent buoyancy, there was something more somber in her eyes. She couldn’t hide her emotions from me, her sky blue and hazel eyes were just too expressive. I could see thoughts and questions flit through them. Occasionally I caught her studying me when she couldn’t see my face, her expression thoughtful. I wondered what it was that still troubled her. I found out as she sat at the kitchen table while I prepared veal piccata al limone with fettuccine.

“Dad? Would it bother you if I asked you about us?”

“Never. Why?”

“I’ve got questions. About what we’ve done. Sex and stuff.”

“Have you changed your mind?” I asked.

“God, no. But, it’s sorta embarrassing for me to talk about it.”

Setting the knife aside, I turned to face her. I admired how fresh and sweet she looked in jeans and her dark purple T-shirt, her thick hair pulled into a bushy ponytail. Her eyes were hesitant, searching mine.

“Sweetheart, you shouldn’t be embarrassed to talk about anything with me. Despite my better judgment, we’ve become more than father and daughter. It would be wrong if I didn’t know what’s on your mind, or you not know what’s on mine. Complete honesty will make our relationship much better. No secrets between us, okay?”

She smiled softly. “Okay.”

“So, what’s on your mind?” I asked, turning back to the counter. I thought it might be easier for her to talk if I wasn’t studying her.

“Do guys like girls to talk dirty when they’re having sex? It seems really fake to me.”

Somewhat shocked, I asked, “Where, exactly, did you hear about that, young lady?”

“Dad, stop being stupid. Porn’s all over the Internet.”

“But, why would you be watching it?” I asked, not very pleased.

“I had questions. So, do guys like it?”

“I imagine some do.”

“Do you?”

Dropping a knob of butter into the frying pan, it sizzled. I sliced a ripe lemon and dropped the slices into the butter while considering how to answer Sia.

“It’s not the words that are crude, it’s how they’re used. It’s all in tone of voice, delivery, and context.”

“How so?”

“Well, if someone sees something and says ‘Fuck’ in amazement it’s completely different than someone who says ‘Fuck’ in a hard voice.”

“That’s what I thought. So, you don’t like that stuff?”

“If you’re referring to what professional porn actors do, no. I don’t mind the words, but how they are delivered is plain crude.”

I stirred the pasta in the boiling pot and added thin-sliced, milk-fed veal to the frying pan, placing each piccata between the lemon slices, and wondered what my far-too-curious daughter would come up with next. I wasn’t disappointed.

“The other night my climax with you was the strongest I’ve ever had. Is it always like that when you have sex with someone?”

“Did you enjoy it?”

“Well, yeah! It was amazing. I just have questions.”

With a chuckle, I shook my head. “Climaxes range from soft and sensual to hard and exhausting. It depends on what you’re doing and feeling.”

A short silence ensued. I flipped the veal and drained the pasta, steam wafting up to fog the kitchen window.

“If I wanted to do what we did the other night again, how would I ask you?”

“Just like you did. Is that what you want?”

Sia replied with a question, “What if I wanted to do something else?”

“You’d ask.” I plated dinner.

“I could ask for anything?”

“Not exactly. Can you set the table?”

Sia rose, opened a drawer for cutlery. “What is ‘not exactly’?”

Placing the plates at the table, I clarified. “I’d never agree to do anything that causes you pain or humiliates you.”

“Like what?”

I smiled. It was just like Sia to interrogate me, but sex added to the equation brought a rather interesting dimension. “Like anything that causes pain or humiliation.”

I expected her to probe for clarification until I was stripped bare of any obfuscation. Clearly, I still had a lot to learn about her mental wiring.

She took a sniff of the veal, nodded in satisfaction - it passed her demanding scent test - and took a bite. Looking up at me, smiling while chewing, eyes twinkling with mischief, she poked her fork at me a few times, swallowed and said, “I want us to try something tonight.”

I wondered what she wanted me to do to her. This was interesting.

Sia, after swallowing a mouthful of lemony pasta, continued, “Don’t worry. It doesn’t involve pain or humiliation ... at least I don’t think so.”

Despite my inferior interrogation skills, Sia wouldn’t say another word about it. It made for some extraordinarily visual speculation on my part; Sia naked, lying on her front, me caressing her glorious buttocks, mounds of endless pleasure, a kiss or two, perhaps a loving suck, a hickey to brand her. Did she have dimples above her cheeks? What would the sexy gap look like from behind?

Events didn’t unfold as I’d envisioned. Maybe I pressed her too hard. But, while on the living room couch, giving her toe pokes, urging her, “Come on, tell,” she refused, a smirk on her pretty face.

“Stop poking me, Dad.”

“Come on, honey. I’m dying here,” I pleaded with another poke in her side.

“No.”

“Sia, honey, have some compassion. Tell me,” I tried yet again, giving her a hard poke.

“Stop!” she laughed, kicking her leg out in retaliation.

Pain exploded in my groin, a white-hot lance of breath-stealing agony. Breathing stopped as I curled into a ball grasping my groin. I fell off the couch, stars emerging, an iron band squeezing my chest. Holy fuck!

“Oh God! I didn’t mean to do that!” my daughter exclaimed, jumping up and kneeling next to my contorting body. “I’m sorry! Really sorry!” she exclaimed.

I managed a guttural grunt, relieved when I could breathe shallowly, thankful I hadn’t died from asphyxiation. Curled up, cupping my balls, I suffered from wave after agonizing wave of pain, mentally swearing. Fuck, it hurt.

“Dad? Dad? Can you talk?”

Cramps finally eased. I rolled onto my back, sweating. Mismatched eyes peered down at me, expression worried, dark hair a mess.

“Dad?”

Breaths slowly became deeper, pain fading to a gut-clenching ache. When I could breathe, I asked, “Why did you have to practice your self-defense skills on me?”

Sia grinned in relief. “You shouldn’t have poked me so much. I told you to stop.”

“But, attempted castration?” I asked, giving her a weak smile.

“Sorry.”

Eventually I made it back to the couch. I noticed with amusement my sensitive daughter kept her foot well away from my groin, settling for a soft, apologetic caress of my calf.

Pain faded into a dull ache. A scotch helped it disappear. We chatted, watched a ‘documentary’ called CSI Cyber, at least it was a documentary according to Sia.

Later, when we headed to bed, happily anticipating having Sia back in bed with me, she stopped me mid-way into the bedroom.

Moving close to my front, she looked up. “I’d like to undress you. Can I?”

“Can I undress you?” I asked.

“Uh-huh. But me first.”

She rose up onto her toes, eyes bright and expectant, her arms reaching up. I bent, my lips brushing against hers, lingering lightly. It was one of those sweet, meaningful kisses of hers I loved so much, full of adoration and love.

Her fingers eased my Polo shirt up and off before trailing her fingertips through my chest hair. She kissed my chest while easing her hand inside the waist of my jeans. The button popped open. A lowered zipper sounded surprisingly loud. I thought she’d tug the jeans off, but nope. Never predictable, Sia eased her hand into the waist of my boxers and down, her small hand cold. She found my penis just as it woke from its slumber and she fondled me, bringing me slowly to a full erection with exploratory squeezes and strokes. It was stupendously sexy to be groped by my daughter. She turned her face up and smiled with satisfaction at my new condition, removing her hand.

“I wanted to feel it grow,” she said softly.

“Congratulations. You succeeded.”

She giggled, shoved my jeans down, and stepped back to study the tent in my boxers. Seemingly pleased, she tugged my boxers down, my cock springing up.

“My turn?” I asked, my voice a bit husky for some strange reason.

“Uh-huh,” she replied, distracted by my erection.

Does seduction come naturally to teenage girls? If not, where do they learn it? Not to be outdone by a fourteen-year-old, I used some well-honed, if slightly rusty, seductive skills myself.

I started with feather-light brushes, just the back of my hand against the tip of her small breast as I brought my hand up to curl a stray wavy tress of hair behind her ear, pausing to touch her earlobe and trace a fingertip down the side of her neck.

My hand descended, the back brushing against the tip of her other breast on its way to trace the outline of her pussy over her jeans.

Sia’s eyes widened. I smiled.

A gentle squeeze brought heat into her expression, very attractive. With both hands, I tugged the hem of her T-shirt out and lifted. She raised her arms. Her bare stomach appeared. My breath caught at the sight of a white lacy bra, small breasts seen clearly, dusky pink areolae, nipples. It stopped me, the sight so damned sexy. Frustrated with waiting for me, Sia took over, removing the T-shirt and dropping it to the floor. I wasn’t ready to proceed. I was too taken with the dichotomy of adolescent breasts coddled by such adult-looking sexy lace. Beautiful. I cupped one gently, delightfully petite, so firm.

“Hurry up, Dad. You’re too slow.”