Chapter 3269: RED HAIR, RED FACE
I was, as I've said, approaching nineteen, still living at home with my parents having just taken my A level exams and waiting as patiently as any eighteen-year-old for the results – as in, not very. I was confident and happy, though, feeling as if my grades were going to be good enough to get me into the university of my choice, and that a great career lay ahead of me. Better still, those balmy Summer months had finally – at last! – seen my boobs swell to more acceptable dimensions.
I'd been a slow developer, physically, but then the miracle expansion happened after I turned eighteen. It wasn't exactly Jack and the Beanstalk or Alice in Wonderland, growing and growing and growing – but 30 graduated to a very respectable 34, and better yet, the old 'a' became a 'c'! Truthfully, when the first tightening of my bra began to become painful, such was the speed of expansion during this growth spurt, I panicked for a day wondering if I was pregnant. I mean, you hear stories about how women's breasts grow when they're cheating a stork out of a job, and I was eighteen and... And then I realised I was still a virgin. Yes, really.
In six months, I expanded four inches, and my pride expanded several feet. Things seemed to have settled down by that Summer and shock-of-shocks, I was actually hoping that there wouldn't be any further growth. For one thing the required clothes shopping was seriously eating into my pocket money, and in any case I rather liked things the way they had become.
Although 'liked' is really understating things. I adored how people looked at me all of a sudden, now I was eighteen and developed, especially the men – all men. Well, all straight men anyway. So, perhaps you can imagine just how proud I was of my new appendages.
And that sort of brings we to the evening in embarrassing question.
One other thing that I'd done since I was too young to even remember doing it – and when, more recently at that time, I wasn't immersed in homework or studies – was have my bedtime story. And yes, it sounds horrifyingly childish I know but back then my dad had the most amazingly wonderful voice, full of Anthony Hopkins-like grace and depth, a touch of the Morgan Freeman, even, at times. I was an addict, and it really was such a calming time, perfect before a nice, long sleep.
So, every night I could, I'd perch on dad's thighs just as I'd always done, and he'd come up with a story for me. That would have been a cats and dogs and other furry loves of my life thing when I was truly tiny and had graduated through soft horror in my early teens to mystery and fantasy by the time that evening rolled around. That was the other major attraction of dad's stories – I may be a well-enough known writer now, but dad had been doing it long before I could even write my own name.
Not many toddlers, kids or teenagers could boast that they had heard stories told to them by their very own, professional storyteller; and that he had a voice that could melt granite.
During the weeks before that fateful evening, though, there had been a difference – and one that had made the drop-dead stupid teenage me very, very keen on story-time for an altogether different reason.
Now, you have to remember that as stupid as I was, I wasn't entirely dumb. Girls talk – as well as lie, bitch and exaggerate – and we read, and we learn. Just because we're not male doesn't mean that we don't, by eighteen anyway, understand how some things work in the male world. Sitting on your father's lap is one of those things.
Of course, we knew well enough that there are anatomical differences between the genders and the less dumb amongst us knew what that lump under our butts was if we still sometimes sat on dad's lap. We also knew that just because it was sometimes a little firmer than others, well that was nothing more than a contact thing, an entirely natural and non-sexual circumstance. That was the normal order of things, anyway.
But as I say, I had become even keener on story-time because something had changed – and changed at the same time as my bra size had. As I also say, some of my tops were plain stupid, totally wrong – and if you hadn't guessed already, I'd noticed that when I wore something that was perhaps just the tiniest bit too revealing then that lump – yes, that one – would become a little firmer than I had ever felt it before. The link to me was as clear as crystal.
Don't get me wrong. I wasn't suddenly picturing myself as a seductive teenager, out to seduce her own father – not even close – it was just that I kept thinking, 'if even my own father can't help but react in that very manly way to his own girl, just how attractive I must be now!'. That thought about how gorgeous I must have been in his eyes meant, to me, that I must be just as gorgeous in other men's eyes as well – but dad was there, and that proof was always so close at hand. Or leg, anyway.
Those sorts of thoughts were so new to me, but so very arousing. I'd have my bedtime tale, and retreat quickly to my room, climb into my lovely bed and let the arousal suffuse me. And yes, I would masturbate slowly and firmly, a new type of excitement soon bringing me to climax. It was all so innocent and yet steeped in sensations that grew out of something so taboo in an odd way – a heady mix for a headstrong teen.
That evening, though, the fateful one...
Dad had been out of town for almost a week, signing books and doing what he did to earn for us all. That, of course, had given me time to think and plan, a chance to make sure I was ready and eager for his return for all sorts of reasons – although story-time was dominating my teenage mind. It also gave me time to dare myself, to challenge my own 'girlish' suppositions, and to plan accordingly as my body seemed to dictate. It was a time that took on an enormous sense of excitement, and I even challenged myself to bottle it all up for my post story-time trip to my lovely soft mattress, lovely firm fingers and lovely naughty thoughts.
My only remaining challenge to myself was what to choose to wear for the story. I was, by then, aware that my wardrobe choices had often been... what's the word? Oh, yes, naff. But I'd spent an age that week procuring a couple of new tops with the express aim of attracting eyes – dad's eyes, to be precise. And I emphasise again, it was the effect I was seeking, not the man.
But it really boiled down to just how daring I could be – and that's where the previous naff choices presented an unexpected opportunity. One of the tops was simply a little too big – I loved the look of the thing, but they only had them in a size that was one too big for me, really. That, though, was a chance... it would gape if I leaned in certain ways, and if I wore something very skimpy underneath... and then I had the most wicked, naughty, wonderful idea... What if I wore nothing underneath?
By the time that thought crossed my mind, dad was driving into the garage at the side of the house, and there was next to no time to decide. The surge of excitement that the sound of his car's engine had already produced doubled – or maybe trebled. With shaking hands, knowing the chosen – oversized – top was sufficiently thick to at least disguise what was beneath, I made the instant decision. My bra landed somewhere behind my bed, and the last blouse button was being done up before my dad's keys rattled in the front door lock.
Then, though, there were hours and hours to endure. Welcomes, supper, details told of the week, more welcomes from neighbours, more chat about the week, more, more, more – or so it seemed to me. But my eyes were on the living room clock almost constantly and everyone had their own bedtime marked out by the passage of the old-fashioned clock hands. Mine was half-past eleven, the last of the kids to go up – but not before fifteen or twenty minutes of story-time.
Surely you can understand how it was feeling for me?
I tried to pass the time any way I could – I even did some of the washing up, much to my mother's amusement/amazement. I tidied the junk mail (into the recycling bin – yes we lived in a, then, very forward thinking place), I polished the trophy cabinet (possibly or possibly not obscuring dad's writing awards even more than they already were), I even brushed the cat (until even that docile mog decided to head for the cat flap) – and the hands on that old clock moved ever slower. Even when the little hand clicked on to the eleven and the big hand began its descent towards the magic two or three, the slowing of time continued, and everything took on an almost surreal feel. My excitement level seemed to stagnate, to somehow still remain and yet leaving me feeling somehow outside of things, my inner senses dulled to the point of anaesthesia.
But then, oh then... I was suddenly and completely shocked when dad said, "Story-time, G?" – and I saw that the recalcitrant clock had shifted from three minutes past eleven to sixteen minutes past. And somehow, I hadn't noticed.
What I did notice was every nerve-ending in my body come to life, one by one but a million to the second. Dad stood without waiting for an answer and headed out of the room – and I knew it was finally happening. For real and right then.
Dad made for his study and I followed, desperately trying not to run and push him onward, ignoring his casual questions about what story I might want told, just saying something bland about, "Anything as long as it's you,", my mind a complete whirl. He wasn't nearly as eager as me, and somehow that excited me even more – I was going to surprise him in the nicest way.
It was what I'd been waiting for so, so, so long – and now it was about to happen!
But as I say, my mind was spiralling off in a million directions all at once, and for all my preparation I suddenly felt assailed by doubts. Even as he sat on his 'story chair' and patted his thighs, gesturing for me to settle there, I felt pang after pang of uncertainty. What if the he didn't react 'down there' at all? What if he laughed at my silly loose blouse rather than admire it? What if he just told a silly story and never even looked down at me? What if I was doomed to go to bed with nothing to think about? What if... what if... what if... A thousand doubts per second ran through my dumb brain.
Somehow, some way, I pushed all of the doubts to one side – if not locking them away – and I turned my back on dad for a few seconds to check that the blouse really was showing plenty of cleavage, checked that my skirt wasn't too obviously short, checked that I could still manage to breathe – at a push. And then turned back and went to him, went to the legs that he'd indicated with that patting hand, took a couple more calming – huh! – breaths and sat down.
I had almost managed to convince myself that there wouldn't even be the olden firm lump that my eighteen and not yet developed self had generated just months before, that mankind-natural reaction that all men seem to feel. I had also almost managed to convince myself that one sight of me so close to him would have dad laughing, or maybe even abandoning story-time and sending me off to bed, telling me I looked like a dumb clown... I had so many negative thoughts pouring through my stupid teenage brain by then – but they were dispelled – joyously, delightedly – in a fraction of a second as the backs of my thighs met the tops of his. Relief flooded through me as my left thigh felt the welcoming lump that indicated that every one of my doubts had been unfounded.
My dad wasn't just firm, there was no doubting that he was positively hard. And better yet, so much better yet, that hardness solidified further in the first few seconds after I sat down. He even tried to pull back a little! Not that he was going to be able to do that easily with an admittedly small, but undoubtedly fully grown, young woman sitting on his thighs – especially a young woman who was determined to get her full share of naughty thought sensations in preparation for her bedtime. My heart was in my throat, a tangle of excitement where there had been so many last-minute doubts just seconds before. I was all ready for pure enjoyment all of a sudden, and it was time to get back to my little plan.
That cunning plan was nothing much in truth – although some might disagree – 'just' being some casual leans forward at appropriate points in whatever story dad told. Given that I was side on to him and given that the blouse was both a size too big for even my well-blossomed new boobs and only buttoned to a point very low in my cleavage, there was every chance he would be able to see a lot. Not a nipple or anything quite so brazen – no one had ever seen those in anything approaching a sexual way at that point in my life – but he'd certainly have been able to see a lot of newly developed flesh. I was certain of that, er, point given that I'd spent almost an hour beside my bedside mirror working out the best angles...
And so the story began, and as the word count rose, so did my excitement.
In truth, the only thing I can remember about the story itself is that it was set in a freshwater river. Let's just say I wasn't exactly paying attention to the meaning of the words as dad's rich, burring tones washed over me. What was grabbing my attention much, much, much more clearly was the pressure on my left thigh – and the way that seemed to be building. I don't know to this day whether he'd reached a point in the tale that justified a laugh – but that was what I did at one point, leaning forward a little as I giggled. Of course, I'd hoped for a physical reaction – nothing major, just a twitch or an increase in that pressure on my thigh. But I was a little disappointed when dad just carried on with his fishy tale.
So, still excited despite the first attempt's failure, I tried it again a minute later, leaning forward a fraction more as I laughed.
#
And my heart started to truly hammer when dad's voice faltered for a second or two, and best of all, that pressure against my leg increased. All of my meticulous planning was working, and my excitement levels soared a few more notches. My poor underdeveloped brain began to whirl once more, but this time with an odd mix of success, arousal and the knowledge that my planned bedtime fun was going to be stratospherically wonderful that night. Teenagers are so incredibly addictive creatures, though – and this one wanted a little more and a little more.
For some strange reason I began, it seemed, to find humour in every other sentence that dad uttered, rocking forwards as I giggled, my excitement levels rising with every rock as the blouse gaped and my dad's voice repeatedly faltered, his lump pressing ever harder against my thigh. And as with all addictions, they demand a little more every time.
My brain really had been left behind by then, conscious thought processes being far too complex and sensible for that overly excited teenager. There were more leans, more giggles, more squirms by then too – and more faltering words from the, by then, clearly agitated dad. Bit I still wanted just a little more to take up to bed with me a little later...
And that's the only other thing I can honestly remember about dad's story that night.
One of the characters was a pike and then he introduced the stickleback into the tale. And that latter character gave my addicted, whirled-up mind a chance to go just that little bit further.
"Tickle!" I squealed, "That's not fair! I'll tickle you first!"
Of course, I hadn't really misheard his words. Of course, I didn't need to open that line of possibilities. But of course, I really had been flying higher and higher on the excitement and arousal. I wasn't really thinking by then, not when I turned and started to tickle dad's ribs, giggling and already squealing as he retaliated.
Everything was going perfectly. Better than perfectly. All of my hopes and plans were succeeding in ways that were going to provide so much material for my bedtime play – and heck, was dad so hard against my thigh by then!
Actually, no... in my addiction-induced extra action, the impromptu tickle-fight, somehow, I'd squirmed around a little, and that hard, hard lump wasn't pressing my thigh any longer – I was pretty much sitting right on top of it...
And that brought another no.
I hadn't planned on getting quite so excited – and I hadn't planned on my already rather short skirt riding up quite so high as I sat there...
And so, excited wasn't quite the right term... Not at all the right term. I suddenly felt the tightening in my belly, the loosening of my hold over the sensations deep within me – felt the blue touch-paper starting to spark and crackle.And that brought a much, much louder mental 'No!'...
My properly conscious mind finally got heard, but all it really had to say was, 'Panic! You've let this go too far, haven't you, little girlie? I'm not sure you're going to be able to stop things now...'. My eyes widened as I realised the truth of those words. I really had let things go too far – too far along the inevitable path of arousal, too far into my own little world of pleasure – and, oh my gods... My belly muscles began to twitch, and my eyes opened even wider as real panic washed through me.
No matter how many times I tried to tell myself this wasn't happening, couldn't be happening, no matter how hard I tried to control my over-excited teenage body... the fuse just burned brighter and brighter. And faster.
I remember my horror, remember looking down at myself, at the blouse gaping to reveal so much cleavage, and at my skirt pushed up by then to the very tops of my thighs – and at my pale blue panties so clearly visible to me... and therefore so clearly visible to my dad...
And then I realised his voice had gone much quieter, and when he said, softly, "Are you alright, GG?", I really panicked.
But still, I thought there was one last chance at control, one final opportunity to push back the seemingly inevitable. I grabbed at the hem of my skirt, trying to push it down to mask those treacherous panties and the even more treacherous belly within. It was the last chance... but I was on no fit state to do anything right by then.
I grabbed and pushed the material down... but I'd also grabbed the front of the blouse so as I pressed the skirt lower, buttons popped. One button might have been okay at a push, but three... Even as I felt the relatively cooler air of dad's study wash over a bared breast, the first wave started to strike, started to take over my young body.
I tried the last-ditch manoeuvre, tried to get off my dad and walk, run, stagger from the room – whatever it took to get me out of there. But two things conspired to make that a failure, the ultimate 'epic fail'. My hand was still pressing my skirt hard against my panties, hence hard against my now pulsing pussy – and worse yet, so much worse... or better... that hard lump in my dad's old trousers... it was... I was right on top of it. Sure, there was three layers of cloth between my own dad's hard member and my teenage womanhood – but it was right there. And my inner mind, my subconscious had one last tease for me. 'The best dildo ever, huh?' – and I was lost.
I never swore at home as a rule – but as the first wave of climax beat back the last remnants of my defences, I started to say "Oh, fuck!" over and over. And I knew that this was going to be a seriously big one.
All the suppressed desire, all the bottled-up arousal, all the preparation and planning... it exploded – and there was nothing left that I could do to stop it.
I tried to say that I was sorry between waves of pure climactic release, but somehow dad's super-understanding, his soft words of comfort – words like, 'natural, physical reaction', and 'fine young woman', and worse of all, 'the normal sexuality of youth' – just made things worse. Or better. And then he hugged me to him, one bare arm across my shoulders and the other... oh gods, the other bare arm across my chest – my breasts, my bared breasts¬ – my rock-hard nipples pressed against him...
And my treacherous body reacted to his understanding. It knew that it was too late to take anything back now – far, far, far too late... I didn't even try to stop my hand at my groin as I released the skirt, pushing it back higher with my forearm as my fingers sought and found my eager wetness through the flimsy, blue panties.
Still saying a mixture of 'Oh, fuck!' and 'Sorry!', I gave in completely when dad said, 'Let it all out, GG'... I squirmed against his hardness, masturbating almost topless on my own dad's lap – and fuck, did I climax so hard, time and again. It had all gone far too far, but it was a done deal and I gave control over to the stupid, moronic beast within me, at least understanding enough to know that dad seemed to comprehend what was happening on so many levels.
So, I squirmed more, pulled my other arm free of dad's comforting grip which bared my 'new' breasts completely to his eyes, I ground down and finally slipped my fingers inside my little, blue panties – and inside myself. I came again, thinking it was the final time – until dad said, "You really have become an incredibly attractive young woman, GG,". That may or may not have triggered yet another climax, but when he added, "And you've certainly swelled plenty here!" and cupped a naked breast... well, I had no chance of any sort of control.
You hear these stories where women say they came so hard they blacked out – and it's true I seldom believe that – but I do know that it really is possible – because it happened to me once. On my dad's lap that night.
It wasn't for long, and my mind was perfectly back in full conscious mode the second I opened my eyes.
Dad was back holding me in a gentle bear hug, and he'd had time to refasten my blouse and ensure my skirt was covering those little panties. All was back as it had been before his story had started – but everything was different as well.
I started to say I was sorry, but he shushed me and held me a little tighter and started to say I had nothing to apologise for... and that's when I lurched off of his lap and ran to my room, already crying.
And that is the interview answer I never gave.
I've thought about it from time to time – despite those efforts to suppress the memory that I've already mentioned – and I've trawled through a hundred different ways that night might have ended. I'm a storyteller, remember. All I've ever come up with, though, is a new or different type of embarrassment.
Of course, I understand that there are all sorts of possibilities that might have ended in smiles, but what has always blocked those paths is the plan and simple fact that dad never told me another bedtime story and I never once sat on his lap again. We have never even spoke of that night, not in the three decades that have now past – and yes, dad is still kicking around. You know, in all those years I don't think his eyes have ever strayed lower than my chin?
All I wanted back in my teens, it often seems to me, was a bigger bust. Well, I sure got that – but you know what they say? Be careful what you wish for...
Weekly Power Status
-- Power
Ranking 
-- Power
stone