I stood alongside the king size bed, looking down at him. My pussy was drooling, and I was imagining his manhood thrusting inside me. The dawn was far enough past that no light was needed to see him still sound asleep on 'his' side of the bed, flat on his back. He was sleeping the sleep of the innocent.

May I digress? Thank you, I shall. I picked up a book in the Memphis airport a while back. It was a police procedural. I don't mean fiction, I mean a semi-textbook. If police have two suspects, either of whom can be guilty but not both, how do they know on whom to focus? Answer, put each in a separate cell and ignore them. One will go to sleep, the other will pace restlessly. AHA! The sleeping one will be guilty. He knows who dunnit. The options are to 'do the time or beat the rap, and either one is in the hands of his lawyer. The innocent one is the pacer. He cannot comprehend how he was charged with something he didn't do, and he has no idea what will soon happen to him.

So I guess that our innocent sleeper in the first paragraph was actually sleeping the sleep of the guilty. Except that as in our example, he too had no idea what would soon happen to him.

His face showed just the hint of a smile, as though he was having a pleasant dream. I've never made a study of it, but it seems to me as if dreams always come just before one awakens. I hoped that his dream was about me and my hands, my pussy, my mouth.

It was a Saturday. Neither of us was due to work, he as a chemist and I as a graphic designer. He had announced the previous evening that he planned to 'sleep in', having nothing on his schedule except for some simple yard work. I thought it might be preferable if we simply fucked the day away. He looked so relaxed, so unaware of the troubles of the world. I bent to kiss his furrowed forehead, intent on not waking him. Not yet!

And so I did kiss him, lingering at the sweet aroma of last night's shower and shampoo. His smile seemed to widen, he mumbled some incoherent sound, but still he slept. That was nice, I thought; let me try it again. I tried it again. As my lips touched his head, I whispered, so softly that I almost couldn't hear my own voice, 'I love you.'

That brought him halfway to consciousness. His smile returned, and responded in an equally soft voice, 'I love you too'. But his deep sigh told me that he wasn't yet fully awake. His hand reached out and touched my leg, at knee level. The hand began to rub the leg up and down. On paper, it would have looked like the chart of a growth stock, up one point, the next day down a half point, continuing upward on and on.

His hand reached my hip and suddenly stopped. I guessed that he had woken a tiny fraction more when he realized that under my loose workout shorts I was commando. The hand dropped instantly to its starting point. On that hypothetical stock chart, one might think that the shares had suffered the effects of unexpected bad news. Others might see it as a supreme buying opportunity.

When his hand moved from one knee to the other, now resting between my legs, while at the same time the thin sheet covering his torso began tenting upward, I calculated that he realized opportunity. I realized it also, for while that had in no manner been my intention – wink, wink - when I had bent down to give him that soft kiss, my heart began to beat more rapidly, my nipples grew to attention and I felt that old familiar dewy feeling increase at the junction of my legs.

His hand resumed its upward trip, this time with his fingers squeezing my thigh gently on each movement. Higher and higher he progressed; wetter and wetter and wetter my pussy became. And then the back of his hand touched my leaking loins. I moaned, not in release as yet but in full blown anticipation.

His fingers opened and slid between my legs, under my pussy and onto my ass cheeks. His middle finger began to slide up and down along the crack while his thumb slid easily between my labia to marinate in my lubrication. Then the thumb began to fuck me.

At the same time, I reached down and softly removed the sheet. He is a naked sleeper and his manhood jumped free to welcome my touch. I stroked it, running my fingers over his purple-ish circumcised crown. Seven inches of lust muscle to be sure, probably eight; I had never used a ruler on it. I left his cock to fondle his wrinkled, hairy ball sac and he moaned.

"I love it when you play with my little guys that way, Linda."

I sighed, seeing no way to avoid the subject. Or maybe I had subconsciously been trying to bring up the subject.

"I'm Kaila," I whispered. "Mommy's been dead for ten years, Daddy."

He bolted upright, face flushed, mouth open, eyes bugging out as if on stalks, like a Martian. Or more realistically, like a deer caught in the headlights. His hand pulled out of my pussy and the blood raced out from his cock back to his brain. His eyes focused on mine as he slowly reconfirmed what he thought he had heard. They dropped to my breasts, covered by a loose blouse but impossible to hide. Then he saw the wet spot on my shorts. I gave him ten seconds to stare at me and then I pushed him onto his back.

"And for the last ten years, you've been avoiding every chance, every offer, every opportunity to make love to me" I said, dropping my shorts to the floor and throwing one leg over his middle, straddling him on the bed. "That ends right here, right now. It's time to move on."

Trust me; it had been one bitch of a time getting Daddy into my pussy. Mom had died when I was only 14 and he had to raise me. I was their only child and our closest relatives were over 1000 miles away. Daddy was making a great salary and there was no way that he was going to move me back to where some aunt could be shanghaied into helping me grow up.

Before she had died, I'd already suffered through enough menstrual cycles. Mom had long since given me the lecture about the birds and the bees – and boys and condoms. I'd already graduated into my second bra. Still, Dad had to become the one to cross-examine boys who came to take me on dates, to approve the dresses – and, how embarssing, underwear – that I bought, and the one to show up at Parent-Teacher nights. But he treated me like a Princess and I loved him madly.

So, despite the fact that I was a reasonably obedient child, I was still a hormonal teenage girl, with definite curves and fair of face. With only a father to restrict me, I did some acting out that he neither knew about nor had the maternal insight to intuit. He surely knew the minds of teenage boys, having lived through it, but all that had taught him was that teenage girls were not as loose as teenage boys wanted them to be. If only you knew, Daddy, if only you knew.

I knew that he and Mom had been very sexual when I was growing up. I quickly had learned the meaning of moans and groans that sounded in the night without being preceded by yelling and screaming, and the reason for the bumping of their headboard against my adjoining wall. In The Talk, Mom had made it clear that sex was for more than procreation, and that even as she told me to guard my purity – HAH – she also told me to carry condoms. I learned that she had given her virginity to Daddy back in high school, but did not insist that I save my own for a future husband. She also taught me about blowjobs long before any of the other girls in school mentioned them.

Most of all, Mom had explained that while I was waiting for that one special person to whom I would give first dibs on my body, that girls as well as boys kept their sanity – not her words – by masturbation. She showed me once how it should be done; after that I was on my own. And I ultimately became quite an expert at it; at least I kept myself quite satisfied – often.

At first, in my earlier years, my libido took over whenever I would hear my parents making love in their room. I would be lying in my bed, reading a book or watching television, when the soft sound of thumping of headboard against wall would catch my attention. I would turn off any lights and switch the television to one of the soft porn channels on the cable box. You know, bare tits, sometimes a quick glimpse of bald pussy, fucking and sucking where you never saw any cock, rarely any pussy eating unless it was girl on girl, orgasms with never any fluids shown. (I could also get the real raunchy stuff on my computer, but not while my parents were in the next room. Anyway, that's for a different story.) The background music on cable was horrible but I always turned it down when my parents were at home. It was enough that they knew I masturbated; they didn't have to know exactly when I was doing it.

In my baby doll pajamas, I would sit up against my headboard, push a pillow behind my head and spread my legs. Quickly I'd get naked and begin to play with my budding tits. I used to rub the growing orbs, pinch my nipples, feather them with an open palm. I was aware that boys liked to touch girls' breasts and as I played, I would imagine usually one of the boys in school, someone who looked good and had smiled at me. Once in a while, that someone who met the same two qualifications would be a teacher, and I would excite myself by imagining that he would be sucking on my nipples.

But most exciting of all was when, through the wall, I would hear Daddy's grunt or moan as he spurted his seed inside Mom, inside her vagina, inside her cunt. Then I would dismiss the boy or man who had been inspiring me and replace him with a picture of my Daddy, my handsome and wonderful Daddy, exploding his cock inside me, filling me with his cum, making me forget all others.

I sometimes wondered if that orgasm resounding through my wall would be the beginning of a new little baby brother or sister, but it was never meant to be. Disappointed then for some unknown reason, and never expecting that Mom would be taken from us, it thus became a mixed blessing for me to know after Mom died that I alone would be the person for Daddy to love, to hold, to care for.

Back on my bed, regardless of which male might at the moment be behind my closed eyelids – that male often changed several times during one session of masturbation – one of my hands would travel between my legs. For the most part, my pussy had been wet before I even began to touch my breasts, but even when not, it was surely soaking by the time my hand went to work down there.

One finger entered my soaking grotto, then a second, occasionally a third. Is this was a cock would feel like, I asked myself. And whose would it be, I wondered. Tommy from English class? He was cute. Frankie from Math? He was a rugged football player, and all the girls flocked around him. Me too. Or possibly Doctor Earl, my French teacher. My grades weren't so great in that class. Maybe I could offer to let him help me with a really, really special extra credit assignment. With a condom, though.

But let us not forget the times when I heard Mom and Daddy doing it, getting it on, playing house, cleaning Daddy's pipes, whatever a teenage girl should call it when thinking about her parents fucking each other. How would it feel to have Daddy's big cock inside me, spreading my vaginal walls, thrusting into my cunt, doggy style like in a porn movie, his hands on the small of my back pushing me down. The very idea gave me the shivers.

You ask how I knew that Daddy has a big cock. I didn't. It was just that the only cock I'd ever seen, before the computer, was between the legs of my best friend's baby cousin, and I couldn't imagine it fucking anyone until it got big.

So yet, I fantasized, fleetingly, about my Daddy's cock, even before Mom died. But back then, I only pictured it when I was busy giving myself an orgasm, as when my fingers had moved onto my clitoris, my clit. I pulled it, I pinched it, I rubbed it hard until, until finally my mind went blank, that little death when my body begins to shake, when I have to shove my wrist into my mouth to avoid reminding my parents that little Kaila isn't so little any more.

After those early days, when the sound of my parents doing what parents do would be the trigger of my masturbation, I began to do it more often, whenever the mood hit me. That quickly became daily, and then even more. It became the subject of discussion between me and my girlfriends, as it has been among girls in every past generation and as it surely will be during every future generation. Though I guess the way the world is going, the ages of the girls in the discussions will be younger and younger. I'm not ready for that.

But in those conversations, we shared details. How to get off quickly, and how to slow it down for greater enjoyment. Fingers or vegetables or mechanical toys. How frequently or infrequently. Which boys to think about while masturbating, which teachers, which movie or television stars? And of course fathers were the ones most often mentioned as the focus of the imagination.

Occasionally one of us would have a sleep-over friend, and less often a slumber party would bring together more than two of us. Those would very likely include a session or more of mutual masturbation, often with sucking of each others' fingers afterward. A slumber party sometimes, make that usually, contained a bit of girl on girl carpet munching. Not for me, though; not then, anyway. Also for another story.

Mom's death was obviously crushing to me and to Daddy. Fortunately, I had school and he had work to direct our minds. I continued to masturbate regularly, and I also began to consider ever more seriously the existence of boys as sexual tools. I began to date, gradually giving up 'first base' and 'second base'. That was it for me. 'Third base' was too close to giving up my cherry, and Mom had convinced me to hang onto it for the 'right' boy, even if marriage was not the goal.

So what if I had to send a boy home with blue balls. He'd just have to get himself off 'the old fashioned way', just as I chose to.

Daddy on the other hand rarely dated. He was, still is, one heck of a handsome man. Tall, athletic, sparkling eyes, a great sense of humor. But he was still a sad man, carrying his loss in his soul. Some of his dates were one-timers. From what little he told me, apparently he spoke too much about his late wife, too much about his responsibility for his teen age daughter, and not enough about his future, his joy of life. No one, in other words, enjoyed his company except for me.

He had another problem. One night he brought an attractive woman home after a second date. I was old enough to understand that Daddy was going to get laid. Thrilled, I went to sleep early, hoping to be awakened by the banging of his headboard against my wall. But I slept straight through to morning. By then the woman had gone. He knew that I knew that she had stayed over for sex.

"Did you have a good time, Daddy?"

He looked sad, and shook his head.

"What happened, Daddy? She looked hot."

"She really was, but my ... my..."

"Are you trying to say penis, Daddy? I know the word."

"My penis was dead."

"Do you need one of those pills they advertise on TV?"

Again he shook his head. "It wasn't physical, it was mental. She wasn't my Linda."

I understood, but I was shocked. Tentatively, very tentatively, I asked, "Could I help, Daddy?"

I still had my cherry. I had never even seen a live adult cock, much less sucked on one, nor even given a hand job. I hoped that he had believed that from our various discussions. For the third time he shook his head.

"I'll take care of it myself, Kaila."

With that he went back into his bedroom. I couldn't believe it. I knew that boys masturbated, they called it jerking off, but I thought that men were beyond that. But I guessed that a man who'd had regular sex with his wife, or any other woman, would get urges just like a virgin boy.

"Can I at least watch you, Daddy?"

He looked at me as if I had two heads, but I pressed on.

"Someday I might have to do that for some boy. Mom taught me how to do it for myself. I should know what to do for that 'special' boy."