Chapter 1

I always thought I lived a normal life, even though I didn’t have a mother, like all the other girls. I barely remembered my mom, who died when I was four. She had some kind of cancer. Daddy had raised me by himself and he never went out on dates or brought women home. It was just him and me and we made it work just fine. When puberty hit and I had my first period, he was there to help me figure out how to take care of that. He also taught me how to play baseball, tennis and racquetball. I knew what wrench sizes meant and how a lawnmower motor worked.

When I got to high school I expected it to be difficult, because my father was the football coach and taught Phys Ed. It was no big deal, though, probably because he didn’t cut me any slack in Phys Ed and treated me just like any other student.

When I turned sixteen I was allowed to date. There were rules, such as what time I had to be home and no drinking, but the only other thing he said was, “While you’re on dates I want you to imagine your mother is watching you. If you do that you’ll be fine.”

Then two things happened. The first was that Tommy Chambers, a senior, asked me to the senior prom. We had a junior prom, too, which was held at a different time, of course. Oddly, the rules were that seniors could not attend the junior prom as dates, but juniors (or even sophomores and freshmen) could go as dates to the senior prom. Anyway, I got invited to prom and Daddy said I could go. He was clearly reluctant, but he said I could go.

The second thing was that my father decided to look at the lesson plans for the “Health and Sexual Education” class that all sophomores had to go through. I was doing homework at the dining room table as he went through the lesson plans. I didn’t know what they were, then.

“This is outrageous,” he muttered. A little later he said, “It’s criminal! What the fuck do they think they’re accomplishing?”

My father never cursed, and I was speechless as I heard him drop that F-bomb.

I was staring at him when he looked up.

“Sorry, Pumpkin. I’m going over what they taught you in sex ed and it’s woefully inadequate to prepare a beautiful young woman to face her sexual future,” he said.

Now I have to say, here, that I could talk to my father about anything. I had talked to him about when I was angry with somebody, or jealous. I had told him who I wanted to get revenge against (and why) and had told him I hated my breasts when they began to push my shirts out. We had talked about politics and world events and just about everything. But we had never talked about my “sexual future.” To be honest, I had never given my “sexual future” a lot of thought.

“You’re not sexually active yet, are you?” he asked. His voice sounded unconcerned, just a father checking in on something with his daughter.

“No!” I gasped. “Daddy! I’m a good girl!”

“I knew you were, but I had to check. Anyway, back to the issue. You’re going to prom with an older boy and what they’re teaching you in class isn’t going to cut it, so I, as your parent, am going to have to do some teaching at home.”

“Okay,” I said. I didn’t know what prom had to do with sexual education, but I knew he’d explain it, sooner or later.

“You are at a stage in your life that can be pretty rocky. We’ll talk more later, about the dates you’ve been on, but the things I’m going to teach you might be ... ah ... stressful.

“Okay,” I said, uncertainly.

“It may get somewhat ... intense,” he said.

“Intense?”

“Sexual feelings are very intense,” he said. “You may not have had them in the past, but you will in the future. Mother Nature will demand it of you and she never gives up. So our ... um ... classes, together, may get a little ... um ... exciting. At least I hope they’re exciting for you. I want you to enjoy learning.”

“Okay,” I said.

“So you’ll let me teach you some things I think you need to know?”

“Of course, Daddy. I’ll do anything you want me to.”

I should probably have thought about those words before I uttered them.

“First things, first,” he said. “We need to get you a prom dress.”

Now he was talking. I loved shopping for clothes.

I had never been shopping for clothes with my father, though. At least not like this. Before, if I was looking for clothes, I did that while he went to the sports department or whatever. He always looked at the clothes I picked out before we went to the register, but I didn’t try them on for him or anything.

This time he took me to a fancy shop in the mall. It was the kind of place where they brought you jewelry to wear with an outfit you were trying on. Daddy sat, waiting for me to model the things the salesgirl brought me. He spent maybe two minutes talking to her quietly while I looked around at really beautiful clothing, of a sort I had never owned before.

The sales girl was maybe twenty two or three and she flirted with my father shamelessly. I was used to that, though. Lots of women flirted with my father. He was six-two and built like the hulk. He was a linebacker in college, where he met my mom. He and I had the same blond hair with red highlights in it. I was only five-seven when I stopped growing vertically. The rest of me grew laterally, or whatever they call it. If I hated my breasts when they first started growing, I loathed them now that I had to wear C cup bras to tame my thirty-six inch bust. I felt like the only thing people saw when they looked at me was my boobs, especially guys.

The sales lady, however, chose to accentuate them.

Actually, she brought me three kinds of outfits; modest; relatively modest ... and shameless. She started out with relatively modest, a dress with a flowing skirt that went almost to my ankles. It was flowered, but not garishly, with tiny little cornflowers all over it. It had a wide belt that was glossy and deep blue. There were sandals to wear with it. When I went out to show it to him, where he was sitting, comfortably in a big, soft chair (no hard benches in this store). He looked me up and down and sighed.

“You’re so beautiful. You look so much like your mother it makes my heart ache.”

The next thing the sales lady gave me was a more typical prom type dress. It was more modest in the bust and it covered my back. It was pretty short, going a good three inches above my knees. It had lots of ruffles on it. When I went outside and twirled for him he smiled.

“You can wear that one to prom,” he said. “With panty hose,” he added, for some reason. “Next!” he called out.

That salesgirl knew what she was doing, I’ll tell you that. She brought me things to wear I would never had thought of.

In all I tried on six outfits. The last one was of the shameless variety. She called it a little black dress and it had no back in it. It was made of some material that hugged my body like it was glued on. She brought me what she called underwear to go with it, except there was no bra and very little of anything else. I assumed it took some special kind of bra they didn’t have there. She must have known I’d never worn a garter belt before, because she showed me how it worked. It held up thigh high dark stockings. She had to tug and fumble with it in the back so it didn’t show.

“The garter belt was made to go with this dress. The back part matches exactly the belt part of the dress. The garter straps will show through, but that’s intentional. You can wear a thong with a very thin back cord, but this dress was actually made to go commando in,” she said, as if she was talking about how, sometimes, they put pickles on cheeseburgers. “I can bring you a thong, but if you wear it you have to buy it. If you wear your own panties, they’ll show through, so I’d suggest that, for now, just go without, okay?” She was bright and happy as she suggested I model a second skin without wearing anything under it except a garter belt and hose. Then she produced black shoes with four inch stiletto heels before leaving me alone in the changing room. I put everything on and, when I looked in the mirror I was astonished. Under the sharp points of my nipples I could actually see the gentle swells of my areolas through the dress. When I turned and looked at my backside in the mirror it was obvious I wasn’t wearing panties because my butt was completely smooth under the dress. I basically felt naked.

“I don’t think this one is going to work,” I called out.

“I want to see it,” he said. “Don’t worry. It’s just me.”

So I went out of the changing booth to grit my teeth and wait for him to laugh. I was a little unsteady on those tall heels. I’d never even tried on anything with a heel taller than two inches, before.

He told me to turn around and I expected him to snort at any second and talk about how positively scandalous it was, but he didn’t do that at all.

“Gorgeous,” he sighed. “I like this one a lot.”

“Are you sure?” I asked. My voice trembled a bit.

He looked at the sales girl and said, “Ring us up. She’ll wear this one out. I’m taking her to dinner after this.”

“What?” I gasped, weakly. I wasn’t flummoxed about the going out to dinner part, but I couldn’t understand why he’d want me to parade around public, wearing a dress like this!

“Sweetheart,” he commenced to explain. “You’re a beautiful young woman, in the prime of her life. There will be times you want to show that to the world and this is the kind of dress you’ll wear. We’re going to practice with it, tonight, so you get to know how it feels.”

“It feels like it’s too much,” I moaned. “Or too little,” I added. “And my hair’s a mess and I don’t have on any makeup!”

“It is neither, and you don’t need makeup,” he said. “You are as beautiful as your mother, who was the most beautiful woman I ever met. I want you to feel comfortable in your beauty. I know it feels odd right now, but I hope you can feel comfortable in it later, okay?”

I gave in, of course. When we left the store I was carrying three bags, one of which had what I had worn to school that day in it. I felt like everybody in the whole mall was staring at me as we left. I had the bags in one hand and was holding his arm with the other, using him to help me walk in those heels. I felt pretty, but I also felt like I was on display. I wondered how models could stand it, walking on the runway with everybody staring at them. He was carrying the bag my prom dress was in, on a hanger so it wouldn’t get crushed, so I knew we looked like an odd pair.

And a very strange thing happened as I click-clicked across the marble floor of the mall and pavement on our way to the car.

I got horny.

It was crazy! I thought about why this might have happened. It wasn’t because the dress was scraping across my nipples. It was too tight for that. And even though my pussy lips were kind of rubbing together, that wasn’t unusual, either. I didn’t feel like I needed to rub or anything. I just felt horny! It was like a few times in the past when I was at school and got fired up over some boy and anticipated all day long being able to go home and slowly rub until I had a doozy of an orgasm. When that happened, the anticipation was as much fun (almost) as the actual rubbing.

When we got to the car it abated a little bit as I just sat and looked at the world through a window that the world couldn’t see me through. He drove us to an Italian restaurant I’d seen but never been to before and they seated us in a booth where at least I didn’t have to worry about skirt control. I looked around, expecting the other diners to be staring at this tall, buff man, dressed in casual slacks and an open-collar button-down shirt, who was in the company of a woman who looked like a hooker. I didn’t have on any makeup and my hair was still in the ponytail I wore it to school in. I knew we must look ridiculous, but nobody was staring or pointing or giggling.

“Relax,” he said. “You look spectacular. Every man who sees you will stare a little, and some of the women might shoot you the evil eye, but you just look like a healthy eighteen or nineteen year old woman having dinner with a man she likes.”

“I’m not eighteen or nineteen, Daddy. I don’t understand why you want me to look like this,” I said, quietly.

“Why do I want you to look gorgeous? Why do I want you to look sexy? Why do I want you to make every man who sees you salivate?”

There was a pause, during which I realized those were actual questions, rather than rhetorical.

“Yes. Why?” I hissed.

“Because, in your future sexual life, you’re going to want to look like this for a man, some day. He’ll be a very special man, who you’ll want to see you in all the ways I described. And you need to know how to dress for him when the time comes. What I want is for you to feel completely comfortable wearing that dress. That’s what will be the cherry on the top of the sundae you represent.”

Our food came and the conversation was put on hold. It was delicious food and I even got to sip his wine, which was sweet and made me wish I could have a whole glass of it.

We didn’t talk on the way home, either. I was amazed, when he parked the car in the garage, that I did feel comfortable in the dress. When I opened the door to get out things were a little awkward, but there was nobody around to look up my dress, so I didn’t worry about that. I took the heels off and went in the house ‘barefoot’ and hoped I didn’t ruin the stockings.

“Come to the den with me,” he said. “We may as well get started.”

“Potty first,” I said.

In the bathroom it was really easy to perform the process. I had thought managing things would be a trial but the dress simply pulled up and became a wide, stretchy belt around my waist. The garter belt presented no impediment to doing my business. It had never been more simple to pee. I wiped, stood up, flushed, washed my hands, and then pulled the dress down again. I could have done the whole thing in thirty seconds if I’d been trying.

The den was definitely Daddy’s man cave. It was dark. The primary lighting was a couple of table lamps, with a few neon beer signs he’d gotten somewhere, and a big rectangular light over the pool table. In the past he’d used the den for coach meetings, where they planned plays and strategy and all that. Normally, though, it was where we hung out to watch TV or a movie. He got a huge flat screen that he said was for watching game tapes on (and they did at those coach meetings) but which we used more often for ourselves. The room fairly reeked of testosterone but I loved being in it. It always made me feel like I was someplace dangerous, but I was completely safe at the same time. He sat down on the arm of his recliner and just looked at me. There was another recliner and a couch, but if I sat on either it would be difficult to stay modest. So I just stood.

“All right,” he said. “Let’s start with what you’re level of experience. You said you aren’t sexually active, but you’ve been out on lots of dates. What have you done with a boy?”

I was embarrassed and my face got red. It wasn’t because of directness of the question. I was used having conversations with him about our personal lives. He had never asked me what went on during one of my dates, though. That’s why I was taken aback. Still, I answered the question truthfully because that’s how I was raised.

“I’ve kissed,” I whispered, “but that’s all, Daddy. Honest.”

“What kind of kisses?” he asked. He didn’t sound upset at all.

“You know ... just kisses?”

“That’s not helpful, Mandy,” he said. He stood up. “I want you to kiss me like you kiss boys on dates.”

I had kissed my dad a thousand times, but they were always pecks. He pulled me into his arms and gave me one of those, on the lips.

“Like that?” he asked. “Or something longer?”

“This is embarrassing,” I moaned.

“Why? Because it’s me you’re kissing?”

“No!” I said. “That doesn’t bother me. But when I’m with a boy it’s different.”

“Mandy, when we get into your sexual education you can’t think of me as your father. You’re a woman and I’m a man. That’s the way things will happen in the future. You’ll meet a man and fall in love and want to do things with him you’ve never done with anybody else. That can be wonderful, the happiest time of your life, but it can also be agonizing if neither of you knows what to do. What you’re feeling right now is what causes problems. Embarrassment will get in the way of true happiness. You and I already know each other, already love each other, so there shouldn’t be any embarrassment between us, okay? Let’s try this again.”

This time it wasn’t a peck. He pressed his warm lips against mine firmly and pulled me against his hard body. I felt the tip of his tongue pressing against my lips and it just felt natural to let it probe. I had done that kind of kissing with boys before. It was a lot of fun, in fact. Tentatively I touched his tongue with mine. I felt hot, like I was being burned in a fire I couldn’t see, or had been transported to a sauna, somehow. But it wasn’t painful at all. He pulled his lips back.

“Have you kissed like that?”

“A little,” I panted.

“How does kissing like that make you feel?”

“Hot,” I answered, truthfully. “I mean physically hot, like I’m in the sun on a boiling summer day.”

“Kiss me again and I’m going to touch you some places,” he said. “I want to know if a boy has ever touched you like that.”

Before I could say I hadn’t let boys touch me anywhere he was kissing me again. His hands, on my back, slid down to cup my buns and he pulled me against his hips. One hand actually slid into the back of the dress, onto the garter bel and I suddenly realized there was something firm poking me down there and with a rush of emotions I couldn’t even catalog I understood he had a boner! What made it different (lots of boys had had boners on dates) was that I didn’t mind that he had a boner. His boner wasn’t scary or dangerous or something I needed to worry about. In fact, his boner felt good pushing between my legs. The fabric of that dress did nothing to protect me from having something hard and male pressing against my pussy.

While I was thinking about that his hands slid up to the sides of my breasts and then pressed inwards. I was against him so tightly that my boobs were protected, but I bent my back for some reason, creating space that let him cup and squeeze my boobies. Without a bra on under the dress, it felt like he was touching them naked. When he pinched my nipples through the dress I about fainted and started panting into his mouth.

He pulled back. His eyebrows were raised in a non-verbal question.

“No,” I groaned. “No boy has touched me like that. You would have killed me if I let them do that!”

“Young women often feel like they won’t get caught for breaking family rules,” he said. “How did that make you feel?”

“It made me feel like I’m pretty sure you don’t want me to feel,” I whispered.

“What you feel with me is one thing,” he said. “I’m more worried about what you feel when you’re with a boy.”

“I never felt like that,” I said. “That would be totally scary if I felt that on a date.”

“Is it totally scary now, here, with me?”

“No. It just feels ... I don’t know ... super naughty?”

“With a boy it would definitely be naughty. With me, it’s just part of your education. You need to know what your body might feel when you meet a man you like a lot.”

“Daddy, I’m not going to let the boys I date do stuff like that,” I said. “I wouldn’t have done it before, and I for sure won’t let them do it after tonight.”

“That’s good. High school boys don’t know their elbows from their asses. Once you get to college, though, and meet some real men, men who are older than you, you may change your mind.”

“I don’t know,” I said.

“Did you like it when I did this?”

He cupped my breasts and squeezed my nipples again. I closed my eyes as the streaks of joy shot straight to my pussy.

“I shouldn’t,” I panted.

“You shouldn’t with a man you don’t love,” he agreed. “With me it’s okay, because it’s just part of your education.”

“Okay. Good.”

“So you like it?”

“I love it,” I moaned. “I’m worried I might love it too much!”

He laughed and pulled me against him.

“You can’t love it too much, Baby. What you’re feeling is completely normal. That’s what I’m trying to teach you.”

He pushed me back.

“Now, how much of you has a boy seen, and how much of a boy have you seen?”

“Seen?”

“Naked,” he said, as if it was the most normal thing in the world.

“Nothing!” I yipped.

“The time will come when you want a man to see you naked, and you’ll want to see him naked. That’s a critical time in a relationship and it can get derailed by feelings of guilt and self-doubt and embarrassment. Do you think you look good, naked?”

“Daddeee,” I whined.

“Mandy!” he snapped. “This is what sex education is about. It’s a simple question. You’ve looked at yourself naked in a mirror before. Did you like what you saw?”

I swallowed. He was so calm about all this that I felt calmer, too.

“My boobs are too big,” I said, softly.

“That’s a good example of a subjective value judgement,” he said. “Men like all sizes of breasts. The man you fall in love with will love your breasts, but it’s more important that you love them, first. I want you to imagine that I’m a man you like a lot and you’ve decided he deserves to see you naked. Take your dress off for me the way you’d do it for him.”

“I’m not wearing any underwear, Daddy,” I rasped.

“I know that, Baby. I’ve been looking at those breasts you think are too big all evening. Personally, I think they’re the perfect size. They’re beautiful. They match your hips and butt, which also looks fabulous in that dress. Your waist is thin. You have the perfect hour glass shape. I’m exactly like that man in your future. Just like me, he won’t be able to wait to see you naked.”

I could feel my face getting red. He had said the most outrageous things to me, but all I felt was a glow. My daddy, who I loved more than anybody else in the whole world, thought my breasts were beautiful! He had said I was beautiful before, but I always felt it was because dads have to say their daughters are beautiful. It’s like some grown up rule. This time, though, he was talking about my breasts, and I was also pretty sure dads didn’t say things like that unless they meant them. I wasn’t stupid about sex. I just didn’t do it. I knew that society thought it was wrong for fathers to love their daughters, sexually. I had never actually imagined my father and I being “sexual” together. Now, though, he wanted to see my breasts, the ones he thought were beautiful and I thought society should just keep the fuck out of our business.

“You have to promise not to laugh,” I said, with a shaky voice.

“I promise,” he said. He held out his little finger. I hooked it with mine as he pinky-swore.

Then I took off my dress for him.

It was actually easier than I thought it would be. I turned away from him, but the dress practically fell off of me. What kept it on were spaghetti straps on my shoulders and the elasticity of the fabric that clung to me like it was cold and wanted some of my body warmth. Once the straps were off, though, and it got past my hips, it released its grip on my body and fell to the floor. I didn’t drop it intentionally. It just slipped through my fingers because I was so jittery. I felt his eyes boring into my ass as I bent down to pick up the dress, stepping out of it, first. Holding it in one hand I covered my groin with it and turned, with my other arm over my nipples.