Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 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, andHe 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.