As my delusion grew, I thought through the outcomes if I tried some crazy scheme my daughter. I couldn’t seduce her or be charming. I was her father for christ’s sake. She’d think I was a dirty old man. I wasn’t going to drug her or get her drunk…that felt even slimier than the slimiest idea.I somehow convinced myself that I just had to be in her, at the right moment, and she’d enjoy it. She’d be OK with it. Having sex…with her father. Yes, this was my logical line of reasoning in the state I was in.
Of course, there was a meeting point between my lust crazy brain and this stupid plan: her little dance routine. When she was kneeling back, her eyes closed, gyrating herself. I would sneak in, I would put it in, before she had a chance to react. For a few glowing seconds, I’d be living my own deepest, darkest fantasy. And I gambled that she’d keep it to herself. Maybe she’d even love having a an automatic orgasm walking around her house that she could ride with no commitment. One she could yell at, and control, because she held all the power.
Or, more than likely, I’d lose my family. My wife, my son, my daughter, damaged for life. Maybe even my siblings and parents would never speak to me. Maybe criminal problems. Maybe a silent, oppressed daughter who turned to drugs to overcome her abuse. Then again, she was eighteen, an adult…
Blurred Lines. You know you want it.
A few days passed. I decided I was crazy. I could never hurt her that way, even if she was a sexpot. It was the culture, I decided. The sex-charged song and sex-charged video lead her to act that way…it wasn’t who she really was. Maybe my wife wasn’t wrong. The culture had turned her into a borderline stripper, and if I followed behind her, I was just another amoral hedonist. Did I not value her well-being over my own need to get off? What the hell kind of father has thoughts like this?
I had to make it a little less than a year, jerking away the fantasies, before she went off to college and away from me. I could do it. I reasoned I’d accomplished many difficult things in my life. The fantasies waned. I thought I could survive.
Then Sunday afternoon happened.
I walked up to the door, knowing my wife and son would be away shopping for clothes and sports supplies for at least the next three hours. I could hear that damn siren song coming from the living room. I reasoned the right thing to do would be to go through the front door and alert her to my presence. Of course, I snuck around to the back door. I wasn’t in control anymore. I told myself I just needed to watch her, one more time. Besides, her friend was probably with her, meaning I couldn’t go through with my little psychotic plot.
This time, she was alone. Same routine, same moves. I drank in the first run. I pulled off my shorts, and shirt, and dropped them on the foyer floor. When they dropped to the ground and my hand found my cock, I had a foot in the grave.
How long would a girl dance to a pop song like this before moving on to the next one? How long until I didn’t know the exact time I could cross the threshold, moving from my daughter having an innocent dance to having her father’s dick deep inside her within a five second span, all without her permission? I rationalized everything. She would forgive me and be disgusted. She would love it and we’d fuck like sea otters. I’d fail to sneak up on her and I could feign an excuse. It was time to go for broke.
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