Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Winona
Daddy’s staring at me. And it’s the good kind of staring, the kind that always makes me a little bit squirmy, and sometimes leaves me needing to get some alone time to take care of myself.
This is not a new situation.
I came to live with Daddy Reuben when I was twelve years old, but he was in my life long before that.
He was really always there. Reuben and my dad were my touchstones, like I guess it must be for kids who have gay dads, except mine were both straight.
I knew Dad loved Mom, and she loved him, and they both loved me, but Mom was always…
a little bit in her own world. And that was fine, until Dad died, and I needed someone, and she wasn’t up to the job.
I don’t blame her for that. I really don’t. I love her for who she is, not for who I wish she was. Dad taught me that. But I was still a little girl, and she wasn’t there, and Reuben stood in for my dad.
Even at twelve years old, I was already starting to look at him as the ideal man.
As tall as a house and built like a grizzly, and ready to fight the world if it made me cry.
Of course, I thought that meant any boy I got involved with would have to live up to his standard, but as I got older, I realized that’s impossible.
Because there’s only one Reuben. Only one Daddy.
Then, when I turned eighteen, something changed. I don’t mean with him, I mean, I changed.
I guess you could say I had an epiphany. I’m an adult now, not a child. And that means, if I want to walk around the house in my panties and a t-shirt, I can. And if I want to pout and tease and try to show him that I’m not a little girl anymore, I can do that too.
Because the way he looks at me sometimes… I can’t help the thoughts it gives me. And I know—I know—he’ll never accept that. But I’m still allowed to want it.
I squeeze my thighs tight, hoping to stem the heat that’s building in my core, but it only serves to add friction. It feels really good, and I want to rub my legs together more, but Reuben’s still staring, and his eyes drift to that spot, and… Oh, God… I feel like I’m about to wet myself.
“What do you mean, nothing is dry, princess?” His voice is a low growl that shakes my spine and nearly makes me fall to my knees.
Except if I do, I’m not sure I’ll be able to stop myself. I’ve noticed things. Things a daughter—even a sort of guardian daddy-daughter—shouldn’t want to notice. The bulge in the front of his pants is huge.
I have absolutely zero experience with such things.
Well, I’ve examined what I’ve been able to see in pictures, and nothing even comes close.
Daddy has them beat. And I can’t even count the number of times I’ve imagined taking out what’s behind that zipper, opening wide and sucking on his cock like it’s one of those orange Push-ups he used to buy me from the ice cream truck when it would come jingling through the park.
I lick my lips and watch his gaze follow my tongue as I try to remember what I said. Nothing feels dry on me right now.
God, did I really say that out loud to him?
“I just… I--” I shrug as I struggle to cover for my filthy admission, gripping tight to the microphone that’s still in my hand, still connected, occasionally sending static through the speakers when it brushes against my t-shirt. “I shouldn’t tell you these things. I’m sorry.”
My head falls, and I stare at my bare toes.
He built this whole thing for me. My own auditorium, right here at home, with so much seating that sometimes it’s overwhelming. But he always said, “One day, you’ll fill stadiums. You need to know that that feels like.”
And here I am, making a mockery of all that love, all that fatherly stuff I should be grateful for, because I can’t stop thinking about him in ways I know I shouldn’t.
In an instant, I feel his warm, calloused hand under my chin, turning my face back up to look in his eyes.
Those pale blue eyes I’ve imagined so many times when I’ve been lying in bed, alone, hugging the tattered, one-eyed frog plushie my dad bought me for my fifth birthday when he and Reuben took me to the zoo, and trying not to touch myself because it wouldn’t be enough.
And failing. And it’s not enough. It’s never enough. Because what I really want, I can’t have.
“Baby.” He draws a breath through his nose, and his eyes turn to storm clouds. It’s like staring down a bull pawing at the dirt, ready to charge.
“I’m sorry, Daddy,” I say again, a little sob coming with the words. “You don’t want to know these things—”
His hand tightens around my throat. Not a lot, but enough to cut off the words and make the tears dry in an instant.
“Never…” He growls, and I know I’ve gone too far.
He’s going to agree with my mother that I need to grow up.
Karaoke night is well and truly over. “Don’t you ever presume to tell me what I do or don’t want to hear.
Daddy wants to know everything, baby. Always.
Every high, every low. You do not apologize for coming to me with your thoughts, your dreams, your fears, or your desires.
I’m your number one safe place. You hear me? ”
He stands there, seething, and all I can do is nod. When I do, his grip loosens, and I take a grateful breath.
“Now,” he says, “tell me what you mean, princess. What feels wet?”
“Well…” Heat prickles on my cheeks.
A low growl precedes his words, making my skin heat as it echoes through the speakers. “Don’t make me ask again.”
His chest fills with a long breath, his tongue glancing along the points of his top teeth. He has the light stubble of a day-old beard covering his strong jaw, a shimmer of silver in the short hairs.
“It’s just… If I tell you, you can’t make fun of me. You have to promise.”
His eyes narrow, but his hand goes to his chest and swipes a cross over his heart. “I would never make fun of you, baby. Never. Now tell me the truth.”
“Okay, well… Sometimes, when I’m near you, I make my panties wet. I don’t mean to, it just happens. I try to squeeze my legs together to stop it, but it just makes it worse.”
“Good girl,” he says, a muscle ticking under his left eye as relief floods through me that he isn’t angry. “How long has this been happening?”
I shrug, licking my lips. “I don’t know. A while. I don’t know how to stop it.”
He growls. “You don’t fucking stop it. You never fucking stop it.”
“Is it bad? Are you disappointed?”
“No, baby. It’s not bad. Daddy isn’t disappointed.” He steps closer, sending my heart speeding as he braces one arm on the wall above me. Nowhere to run, no way to hide. “Is that all? You get wet?”
“Well… No… I…” How do I tell him? I look up and see pain cross his features.
“Sometimes I touch myself when I’m in bed.
I put my fingers between my legs and hug my frog really tight to keep from making too much noise, and then I rub and rub like I’m trying to get somewhere, but I don’t know where, and it never feels better. ”
Shameful wetness streams out of me between my legs and threatens to squeeze from the corners of my eyes as I the microphone dangles forgotten at my side.
This is so embarrassing.
“And when you do all that, what do you think about? Or who do you think about?”
I suck in a shaking breath, gnawing on the inside of my lip before he cocks an eyebrow, and I know I have to tell the truth.
“You…” The answer is barely above a whisper, and I immediately want to take it back.
Except the look on his face isn’t anger. It isn’t disappointment. It isn’t even mockery.
It’s something I haven’t seen before. Like he’s holding something back, and it’s powerful. I glance down and… Oh, my God. I’ve never seen the front of his jeans bulging like that before.
Like he’s growing a dang baseball bat down there.
Now, that looks painful.
“Baby,” he growls. “Eyes back on mine. You think about me?”
I turn my face back up and nod. “Uh-huh. But that’s not the worst part.”
“What’s the worst part, baby? Be honest.” His hand moves to my hair, stroking, making me feel special and safe. Safe enough to tell the truth.
“It’s just… You know the parts down there? The ones I touch?”
“Your pussy. Your little clit. Your lips.”
I nod. “Yes, those… They… I don’t think they’re like other girls.”
I draw a deep breath as he pushes forward further, his body pressing into me, and his cock grinds into my stomach. It’s harder than I imagined, like that baseball bat I thought he might be growing, and I raise my hand, the forgotten microphone coming up with it.
I’ve noticed his cock before, but never like this, and usually he turns away, or when we’re at the dining room table, he’ll cover his lap with a napkin.
I don’t want him to do that. I want him to show me, and let me touch it, let me lick it, let me feel it everywhere.
“Not like other girls, huh?” he asks, the words echoing loud through the speakers, and I push my fingers against my lips to muffle the little whine that seeps from my throat. “Well, I think you need to let Daddy see, then he can tell you if there’s anything to worry about.”
“But… Mom would be angry,” I say, remembering how she told him to stop calling me baby, and how mad she gets when I get his drink or run to hug him when he gets home from work.
“She’ll say I shouldn’t be bothering you with my problems. Especially, you know.
..” I shrug a shoulder to my ear, lowering my voice, “Girl stuff.”
“Your mother doesn’t need to know,” he says, that free hand still braced against the wall above me while his other hand hangs at his hip, fingers still curled with that coconut oil in there. “It will be our secret, baby girl.”