
You stand inches from your front door and fumble with your keys. The keys fall to the ground and end up behind a pot of flowers, and you mumble a thanks under your breath that the porch light is on. You weren't sure if your dad would leave it on since you were supposed to be gone all night, but he tends to think of these things.

 
He knows which precautions to take, but he isn't overbearing. He was okay with you and your friends getting a room together at the hotel the prom was taking place at tonight, and he didn't even blink an eye when you lied that your boyfriend wouldn't be keeping you company. You think to yourself that he probably saw the lie from a mile away, but sometimes he ignores these things so that you can get some sort of feeble sense of rebellion. 

 
Clay, your boyfriend, presses his car horn in an effort to get you to hurry inside. You know he won't drive away because he feels a sense of chivalrous obligation, but you figure that he also probably just wants to get to his own bed and pass out before waking to a pounding headache in the morning. He got shit-faced early enough in the evening that he's fine but mad uncomfortable now. You finally get the key in the lock and turn it, and you turn around to wave to Clay as you push the door open. He doesn't wave back - just revs up his engine as if it's not three in the morning and all the neighbors are not actually asleep. 
 
As you walk in the door, your feet aching from your ridiculous strappy heels, you think about your night. Everything started out okay - your friends lined up for pictures, your dad smiling at you and telling you how beautiful you looked as he snapped away with the camera. Clay picking you up and putting your corsage on you - a feathery-petaled red flower against your white Marilyn Monroe dress with a skirt that would blow straight up in wind if you didn't hold it down. 
 
You'd spent hours doing your own makeup instead of going out to have it done by someone else with your friends because you don't trust anyone else to make you look the way you imagine. The professionals in your little town are old ladies who think fancy eye makeup means frosty blue lids and Cleopatra liner. You'd wanted something different. And your dad had been there all day, grading papers from his class on eighteenth century novels and telling you how gorgeous you were every time you sprinted out of your bathroom and into his office to ask him how a certain shade of lipstick seemed. 
 
You'd told him he wasn't much help if he claimed to like everything the same, and he'd told you that no matter what you put on your face, he just saw his perfect daughter. You'd scoffed at him for a moment, but you had to admit he was just so good to you. You'd gone behind his desk and sat in his lap for a few minutes, resting your head on his shoulder and thinking about how you'd done this all the time when you were a little girl. How sometimes when you were little, long before your mother died a few months ago, you'd walked in on her sitting on his lap in the exact same way, as if she was his child too. You'd looked into his eyes and said, "I'm not too heavy to sit on you like this, right?" and he'd started laughing. "Don't be silly, ." Then you'd crawled off of him and gone back to primping.
 
You slide your heels off and, as you enter the kitchen, there's your dad - sitting at the table with papers.
 
"Why were you waiting up for me? I wasn't even supposed to come home until the morning."
 
He smiles at you and yawns. 
 
"It's not all about you, you know. I'm just up to my eyes in these papers, and I wanted a change of scenery. My office can get a little oppressive."
 
"Well, I told you not to go for the dark wood and leather."
 
You both laugh. But as you laugh, your throat catches a little, and you feel like you might start to cry. Your dad frowns a little and reaches out his arms to hold you.
 
"What happened?" he asks as you collapse into his lap, your skirt riding up your thighs.

 
You think back to the moment your night was ruined. You'd sneaked up to the hotel room with Clay, and he'd quickly ended up on top of you. He'd snuck vodka in and therefore his mouth tasted like rubbing alcohol when he kissed you. You had not been in a mood to even kiss, but you'd been determined to get the sex thing over with. You'd been thinking for a while that maybe being close with another person in such a way would make you feel less empty. Because empty is all you've felt since your mom... Clay had removed your panties and thrown them somewhere on the floor before starting to grind his crotch - still enshrined in pants - into you. 

That's when you started crying. Clay rolled his eyes and muttered something about getting over it. Then he passed out next to you, and you felt pretty pathetic about it, but you leaned into his neck and cried until you felt dried out and numb. A few hours later, when your friends started bitching about having to listen to Clay snoring, you woke him up. He drove you home.

You give your dad a shortened and highly edited version of the night's events - leaving out the vodka and the near sex experience - but you can see that he understands what happened. You are crying quietly and, you think, pathetically.

 
He's leaning in and kissing your cheek where your tears have trailed down your face, and you're embarrassed - he can probably taste the salt on his lips. You can't believe you're losing it like this; he lost her too, you shouldn't be making him worry about you when you're going off to college and he's hoping for tenure and everything has already fallen apart for him more than it has even for you. You get to go away and escape and pretend to your peers that nothing happened. He's got to stay behind and deal with being alone. This thought crushes you.
 
And because of this, because your dad is so good to you and because you love him and don't want to sadden him, you don't say anything as he makes his way from your cheek to your neck with his kisses. You're feeling something that makes you uneasy - it's like the rush of going straight down in a roller coaster, and it's deep in your stomach, with fingers spreading out into the rest of your body. It's something like what you've wanted to feel with Clay. It is exactly what you have never felt with Clay. Your body gives an involuntary shudder, your shoulder twitching and hitting your father's temple. He instantly stops what he's doing and pulls back. He stares down at the table instead of into your face, and for the first time since your mother's funeral, you feel completely unable to read him.

"Dad?"
 
"Go to bed."
 
And he pushes you off his lap. You trip on your own feet as you try to catch your balance and stand up, and you have to grab the table in order to not fall flat on your face. Your dad's face changes back to a normal look - an expression of concern that you see often. He apologizes, says he didn't mean to push you, but that you really should be getting to bed. You stand still in front of him and give him a stare that you imagine is somewhat like the blank one he was giving the table only moments before. He looks back at you without moving, without even blinking. The clock above the refrigerator ticks. Ticks. Ticks some more. And suddenly you're laughing, and you can't help it, and he's raising his eyebrows into a completely what-the-fuck sort of expression, and you gasp out something about staring contests. Your dad starts laughing too, a laugh that seems to hold some sort of relief. Relief that you still want to be silly with him after what just happened. What just happened?
 
In joking about the seriousness you two just shared, you have also acknowledged that something weird occurred. You want to understand it, but you don't want to bother your dad or make him feel bad. And yet you don't want to be left alone after your disappointing night. And... and... that roller-coaster feeling... You tell your brain to shut up, and you tell your father, "Come read to me."
 
"What?"
 
"Like when I was little. Just read me a poem or something. You always help me relax. Please?"
 
He says various things about being very sleepy himself, needing to get up early for a conference call, needing to think, needing to shower. He mutters and you listen and wait. Eventually he just says, "Yes, sure. I'll read you one poem. Go choose something and get in bed. I'll be in."
 
You choose The Waste Land by T.S. Eliot because it is ridiculously long. It will give you as much time as possible to listen to your father's voice dance through the syllables. When you tell him that this is the poem you've chosen, he rolls his eyes, but he also grins. He knows you. He is not surprised that you chose a poem that is practically longer than the Bible. He starts reading.
 
April is the cruelest month, breeding
Lilacs out of dead earth, mixing
Memory and desire...

A few minutes pass. You are so sleepy but feel so alone. And cold. Your room is colder than normal. You turn to your dad and open one eye. He notices, and you close the one eye again. Against your eyelids, you see fish turning into birds turning back into fish, and you know you are close to leaving the realm of the conscious.
 
"Falling asleep?" he asks.
 
"Sort of," you say. "But I want you to keep reading. Just get in here by me and keep me warm. It's freezing in here."
 
"Don't-"
 
"Just come on. I won't stick my cold toes against you." Clay always complains that your various extremities are too cold. Your mouth is against your pillow, and you dimly note that your voice sounds muffled.
 
"That's not what I'm worried about," he says, and he gets up from the chair he's been sitting in. You feel concerned that he's just going to walk away, but sleep is pulling you too hard for you to do anything about it. The light blinks out from behind your eyelids and you know he switched your lamp off. And then. And then - he gets in bed with you.
 
He is so warm you feel almost burnt as he brushes against you, but you pull yourself towards him. He only struggles minorly. Your mind is separated into the sleep-drunk you and the very minuscule rational you that tries so hard to keep track of everything even when keeping track is impossible. That rational bit of you thinks that he'd struggle harder if you were more awake. But you're not. 
 
Suddenly you are though. His skin is hot against yours, both of you wearing only t-shirts and pajama shorts, and you're wrapping your legs around him and he's wrapping his arms around you and you realize that you both are simultaneously deciding to be temporarily happy at the expense of tomorrow morning. What a strange decision to make with your father.

 
You whisper in his ear, "When you kissed my neck, I felt the way I always wish I'd feel when I'm with Clay. I didn't think that existed."
 
"Of course it does," he whispers back. "I want you to have it. Shit. I'm stealing that aren't I, I-"
 
"No, no, stop that, I need this too."
 
You think about studies illustrating that being sleep-deprived is similar to being drunk. It is, isn't it? You are both acting completely drunk. And what else are you supposed to do if you're so very drunk? You kiss him.
 
It feels like his soul, the essential core of this man you have only known in the most constricting way because of what you two are to each other, is struggling to express itself to you as you forget you need to breathe. He's tasting your mouth and you're tasting his, the tip of his tongue traces your lips, you so-softly bite at him, and you are so intoxicated that you feel you may die any minute. You are overwhelmed, trembling from head to toes, shivering even though you aren't even slightly cold anymore. His hands have made their way up the back of your shirt and he starts to unlatch your bra.
 
"Shit!" he shouts, pulling away. "FUCK!"
 
You will not allow this. The only person there for you in the entire world, the only person who also happens to make your entire body spasm with one touch, apparently, is not going to hate himself. And he's not going to hate this. He won't look at you and see his own shame. No.
 
He's just gotten out of your bed, but you can reach him - you grab his arm and pull him back. He starts to struggle, and you know this is a fight he could win in less than five seconds if you don't say something. 
 
"I want you."
 
You're ashamed of the way the words came out - high-pitched, girly, whiny. Mostly like you're about to cry. Which you are. But he's stopped struggling - is even standing still - and you suppose maybe you have said something right.
 
"I want to know you. In every way."
 
Now you feel that he is the one trembling.
 
You use his arm that you are holding to keep your balance as you pull yourself into a kneeling position on your bed. You wrap your arms around his chest and rest your head up against him for a moment. Then you pull back and move your hands to the bottom of his shirt. You start to pull it off of him. He doesn't fight you. It's like the few words you just gave him have turned him into a thing that is yours, and he now knows that there is nothing he can do except give in. 
 
You pull him back towards you, and he complies. He crawls back into your bed as you let yourself fall to your back, and he gets on top of you. You reach your head up to kiss him, but he leans his mouth into you and even pushes you down. You love the pressure of his thighs against your hips, his mouth pressing against your mouth, his hands holding down your wrists. When did he start holding down your wrists? You give a feeble attempt at wiggling your arms free, but you realize you absolutely cannot. But you don't want to, and so it makes you more delirious to know you're at his mercy just as he is at yours. You made him this way, after all. You can tell he wishes he didn't want you like this, but you did it to him. Every time you sat in his lap, every time you asked him how you looked in a dress, every time you got on tip-toes to kiss his cheek.

You keep lifting your hips out of instinct, pressing them harder and harder against him. He's kissing your neck now, and he's let go of your wrists. With your hands free, you reach down and rub your palms against his pajama bottoms where you feel his cock - so hard. This makes you tremble. You start rubbing him through his shorts made of thin fabric, and he moans into your collarbone. In his moment of weakness, you push him, and he goes with it, rolling over next to you. 

Now you get on top of him. You sit on top of his hips and smile down at him. He's shaking and seems terrified, but manages to give you a small smile back. This makes you happier than anything all night, and you pull your shirt up over your head and throw it on the floor. That just makes him shake even harder, but when you start messing around with your bra, he reaches his arms around you and manages to still his shaking long enough to unclasp it. You slide it off and toss it over with your shirt. Your dad runs his hands up and down your sides, your stomach, and whispers, "Oh God, God," as he does so. You grab his hands and pull them to your breasts, so that he is gently holding one in each hand. You look down at him and wonder if your eyes show how much you love him. You lean down to kiss him, but he pulls your entire body up a little, thwarting you and getting one of your nipples in his mouth in the process. You arch your back without even thinking about it, lost in the sensation. He bites you very softly. 

At the same time, he's pulling your pajama bottoms off of you, and they get lost somewhere in the sheets. He moves one of his hands between your legs and starts to stroke you. You feel like you're about to lose it completely, like you probably couldn't say your own name if someone asked. His fingers are the best things you've ever felt, and he plays with you and plays with you and plays with you until you feel that you're approaching a mini-death. And he stops.

"Wh-" is all you can manage to get out, both because you can barely speak and because you're caught off-guard by the mischievous grin he's giving you. It's the look he gives you when he's just surprised you with a rather clever joke. He's teasing you.

"Fuck!" you shout. You can't believe he has the presence of mind for this.

Now you move down to where he is still wearing his pajama bottoms, and you pull them off of him. He has to lift himself up slightly to help you remove them. His cock is so hard, and you accidentally bump your face into it as you shift around with the covers. The head of it brushes against your nose, and you giggle a little. 

You wrap your hand around the base of him and start to stroke up and down, playing with the skin. He's uncut, which your mother had actually told you one day when you'd asked. She'd been bemused, but had answered you honestly. He starts to give more little moans and tries to push your head towards him. You want to torture him though, since he tortured you, and so you move your hand and just lick all around the base. You move closer and closer to the head of his cock, and his moans become sharper and faster, but then you swoop back down, and he gives a sigh of frustration. He begs Please and this does you in. You move up to the head again and slowly slide your lips over him. Having your daddy's cock in your mouth feels like nothing you ever could have imagined. It's better even than when he was touching you. You think you will explode from the electricity coursing through you.

You lick and suck on him like he's candy, and every time you hear him moan, the electricity courses through you at full strength. It's the best feeling in the world to make him feel good enough to become utterly vulnerable. His voice now is different than you've ever heard it, and for a fraction of a second, you feel jealous of and angry at your mother for keeping it to herself all those years. Then you remember just as quickly that she is gone, that you miss her, and that you are, fairly or not, now getting what was always hers. His cock throbs in your mouth. 

You can tell that he'll cum if you don't stop. And while you do want to taste him more than you've ever wanted anything, you remember the little joke he pulled on you when he was touching you, and so you pull your mouth away from him. He moans again, but this time it's a sound of deep frustration. You giggle a little, but you don't want to worry him, and so you say:

"Fuck me."

He pushes his hips up towards you, fucking the air.

"Yes."

You position yourself above his cock and wonder what this is going to be like. You've done things with boys before, but you've never gone all the way. However. You have played with yourself a lot, and so you're not really scared. You grab his cock and rub the head up and down between your pussy lips. You're so, so wet that it slides around easily, and your dad's breathing is seriously labored. So is yours. In one quick moment, you slide the head of his cock into you, and you both gasp at once. He feels so big inside of you, as if you were utterly empty before and now are complete. You wonder what you feel like to your dad as you slide slowly down onto him. Then you slide slowly back up, and-

He rolls you over so quickly that he's on top of you before you know it. His cock is still in you, but only just barely. You love having your daddy in control of you even though you never knew you even wanted such a thing. Everything feels so right as it happens. You starts pushing in and pulling out of you ever so slowly, ever so gently, but he can't help stretching you. His cock makes you feel tight and raw, and you love it.

He's moaning so beautifully. Your legs are wrapped around him, pulling him in closer to you, and every time you squeeze him a little harder, he lets out a small, painful sounding gasp. He's so big and it doesn't seem like he can get all the way inside you - his cock pushes into you and hits some part of you, and you feel a twinge in your belly, but you don't want him to stop. You don't say anything - you just moan and let out little chirps of pain, and he keeps pounding into you. Finally you feel that he's gotten his cock all the way in you. He is deeper inside you than anything ever has been. You remind yourself that this is your dad, the only person in the world who loves you the way you deserve to be loved, and this pushes you over the edge. The tense fire starts in your thighs and stomach and moves in toward where your father is pushing in, and suddenly you are practically convulsing, digging your nails into his back and screaming into his neck. 

Your dad starts moaning louder as you tremble under him, and as you kiss and bite his shoulder, he pulls out of you. He's holding his cock above your stomach, and his head tilts back as he cums all over your tummy, your breasts, your hips. You feel like you're cumming again just watching him. When the last of his cum seems to have fallen onto you, he looks down at you, and you smile at him. He gives a weak smile back, still gasping.

You wish he had cum inside of you, filled you with himself so that you could be linked with this aspect of him forever. You lift up your shaking hand and dip two fingers into his cum. You swirl it around a little on your belly, and then you lift your fingertips up to your mouth and suck on them. His eyes are on you while you do this, and it seems to drive him over the edge a second time. He moans, and this turns you on so much that you grab his cock and pull it to his mouth to clean him off. You feel your own cum slippery all over him, and you start to lick it off, but then your mouth is being filled with...

He's cumming again. You're making your daddy cum a second time for you, and his cum is now spilling into your mouth. You are feeling his pleasure warm against your tongue. You are tasting it. 

When he finishes, he looks down at you again. You smile, and then you open your mouth, still full of him. You display his cum, swishing your tongue around. 

"Fuck," he says, and falls down next to you, laughing nervously. You finally swallow his cum, and you think about your body soaking it up so that he's part of you in a new way. He holds you in his arms even though both of you are too hot now. The blankets all around you are damp with sweat and cum, and you are both exhausted and exhilarated. The man next to you - your father, your lover - is silent aside from his soft breaths. He strokes your hair and gives your neck a single, quick kiss. The silence pushes on, and his breathing becomes more even. You feel that maybe he is not really asleep - maybe he is just pretending - but you let him pretend, with your head nestled against his chest. Eventually your mind turns in on itself and you sleep.

