Daddy’s laugh wasn’t quite as hearty as mine. Still, I knew what he was capable of . . . double rations very much included.
I wiggled my bare ass as I went.
And I could feel his eyes on me every inch of the way.
*****
Call me easily distracted, but I took my mobile into the bathroom with me. Nothing pervy, understand, I’d switched it off while I was on the train (me being socially conscientious, of course) and I’d forgotten to switch it back on later.
Blame it on that monsoon and my dashes to and from taxis!
Not that I’d missed much. My flat-mate Jude had texted, advising me she was sleeping with Tom and Dick that night, saying a little DP was on the cards and hoping that I’d copped of with “some country bumpkin or other”.
(My doing, I must admit; I generally told her every last detail about my sexual conquests, but I’d kept Daddy mum . . . if that’s not a contradictory term!).
My other text was far more intriguing. Roger was easily the sexiest guy on my course. He was also by far the shyest guy in the whole university. Five thousand female students wanting to get into his pants and him unable to exchange two words with any of them!
Yet here he was, texting me, asking for a date on Saturday!!
With genuine regret I responded, saying I was away but back next week, and that I was most certainly up for Tuesday or Wednesday.
In less than thirty seconds he came back with “Tues 4 me!”
I confirmed with “OK – bring a toothbrush” and left the rest to chance.
So I’m a slut and Jude would whine forevermore but hey, fucking Roger would get me kudos as well as sexual satisfaction.
And again please excuse my very foul language. I really am usually not like this. It’s a psychological thing, you see. “Fuck” is normally off my agenda.
At least it was before I started fucking my daddy.
I suppose I’m trying to distance myself between natural love for my father and the thrill of having that granite cock of his inside me.
I also suppose that “love” is a word I should be avoiding.
For Christ’s sake, I can hardly even kiss Daddy. Fucking and sucking comes easy, but kissing . . .
Messed up or what!
Casually wiping myself with toilet roll, fully aware our night was by no means done I was disrupted by the urgent buzz of an incoming call. Not recognizing the number, I accepted it.
‘Oh,’ a familiar voice said, ‘finally!’
Fuck ducks and shag a tree, it was Mother!
‘You only went out for a beer and a burger,’ she went on relentlessly, referring to the week before. ‘Is it safe to say you’re unmolested?’
I sniggered at that. ‘Safer than you,’ I replied snottily.
As usual Mother sailed over me. So far as ships went, she was unsinkable. The Belfast yard that built the Titanic should have used her as a model. Heaven help that poor iceberg if they had.
Heaven help all of us.
‘You said you might be late,’ she went on, ‘but a week is pushing it, even by your standards. Where on earth are you, if it’s not rude to ask?’
I dithered at that.
‘You’re with that bastard father of yours,’ she pounced, ‘how utterly predictable.’