The Ladder

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Note: I call stories like this Conscience Erotica: the intertwining of social/political issues with the promiscuousness of modern society—the decadence we all enjoy and celebrate and luxuriate in. It will not be to everyone’s tastes. Aside from the narrative end-caps this entire story takes place while an adult daughter gives her father a handjob. It is also, though I am a biological male, written from the first-person viewpoint of the daughter.

*****

I was having second thoughts. And it wasn’t just because of the snoring.

Quietly, I unzipped our tent’s mosquito net and climbed out into the humid night. All I was wearing were panties and an oversized burgundy-and-yellow football jersey: number 69. I don’t like football but my fiancé did so I guess he thought it would make an appropriate Valentine’s Day gift last February. It had my name ironed on across the shoulders—Brittany—and, I guess, what with the number and all, was kind of a joke. Very funny. The heavy fabric didn’t breathe well and I was hot underneath, sweaty. I was braless and my feet were bare.

Off to my right, as I stood there momentarily in the July moonlight, you could make out, far below and in the distance, the lights of our nation’s capital. Under normal circumstances it was an incredible sight. I turned away, in sorrow.

There was a source of muted light in the adjacent tent and I knelt in front of it, about to unzip the netting, I could make out a reaction, a gesture of panic: a hand pulling up a thick, padded corner of sleeping bag. What’s HE up to tonight? I wondered.

The panic was in his voice, as well. “Who’s there?”

“It’s me, daddy,” I whispered. I unzipped the netting and climbed inside the tent on all fours. Since there was only one air mattress in this tent, and one sleeping bag, I lowered the right side of my body onto the inner edge and said, “Scoot over!”

“What’s going on?”

“Nothing. I can’t sleep.”

“Me neither.” We were both whispering. But quite loudly.

“Aren’t you hot inside that sleeping bag?”

“It’s OK,” daddy said, sighing. As I settled in beside him I came to realize he was not actually IN the sleeping bag but merely covered, his midbody, by its upper flap. Curious, no, suspicious, I ran my hand down underneath it. Daddy’s chest was bare and, if he was wearing briefs, they were pulled down far below somewhere. His cock was hard, lying vertical on his belly, but, I suspected, not as hard as it had been seconds earlier, before I showed up outside his tent. And barged in. He grabbed me by the arm. “Stop it! What’re you doing?”

I giggled. “Figuring out what you’re up to, old man.”

“Stop it!” daddy again protested. He tried to pull my hand away but it was too late. I had a firm grasp on his erection. I bostancı escort bayan began to try to stroke it—though it was like trying to run from a monster in a nightmare: slow going given that his hand was still trying to restrain mine.

“Let…go!”

“No! Brittany?”

“Shhhh! You’ll wake asshole.”

“That’s how you refer to your soon-to-be-husband these days? Asshole?”

“I wanted to ask you about that,” I said. It sounded ominous even to my own ears. Daddy tried one last time:

“Britt?”

“Relax. Lie back. Let go. You need a girlfriend, daddy…”

The impact of his falling head and shoulders against the air mattress knocked another sigh out of him. His hand had fallen away. He’d given up. I stroked him freely now, stopping only long enough to push the sleeping bag flap away.

“Tell me when you’re gonna cum.”

“Why?” Daddy’s voice was forlorn. Resigned. As if he’d just learned he would indeed be marched before a firing squad at dawn. The request for a Presidential pardon denied.

“Because,” I replied. My stroking hand picked up tempo. “Can I ask you about something?”

“Shoot.”

More giggles on my part. “No, daddy, YOU’RE the one who’s gonna be shooting in a minute.”

I could hear his head rolling side to side against the air mattress pillow. It was practically a squeak. “This is so wrong, Brittany…”

My hair was in my eyes. I took a break from stroking him long enough to push it back, out of the way. I had my mother’s thick, shoulder-length hair. “Get over it, daddy. It’s not like we’ve never done this before. Or worse.”

“That doesn’t make it right.”

“You need a girlfriend in your life. Tonight I’m your girlfriend.”

“You’re not my girlfriend, Brittany, you’re my daughter.”

“Look. If dickhead wasn’t next door,” I said, lifting my chin in that direction, “I’d be straddling you right now. Riding you.”

“Christ, Britt! Enough! And what’s with all these…pejoratives tonight?”

“These…what?” Daddy had a nice cock. Long and pretty thick and circumcised. A beautiful head—not that I could see it at the moment. Sometimes I grasped it loosely so that my hand ran up and down its full curved veiny length; and sometimes I grasped it tightly just below the head. I loved it inside me and would’ve straddled daddy at that moment—no, from the beginning—but I get very vocal in those intense circumstances and my dumbass fiancé was snoring not six feet away. Daddy was an intellectual. Foreign service. Ex.

“Why do you keep calling Kevin…all these names?”

“Like dickhead?”

“Stop it!” Daddy sounded as outraged about my “pejoratives” as he had, initially, about the handjob I was giving him. I wondered if the tip of his head, his “eye”, ümraniye escort was getting glossy now. Pearly clear-white. I wondered how much longer we had. I knew that once he ejaculated all the magic would leave the moment. Conversation: over. I wondered if my juices were starting to stain the crotch of my cotton panty. I slowed my hand’s tempo back down: largo.

“That brings me back to my original question.”

“Question?”

“Yes. I said I wanted to ask you a question. REMEMBER DADDY? Are you listening to me?”

Daddy waved a hand, in the darkness. I cleared my throat.

“I wanted to ask you how you would feel if I…like…called off the wedding.”

Daddy rose up a little, off the vinyl-encased air beneath him. “You mean…postpone it?”

“No,” I replied, summoning my nerve. “Canceled it.”

“Canceled it as in…?”

I nodded. And realized there was more light inside the tent than I’d first thought. What was the source? I was reminded of that song…Don’t hide your light under a bushel? Some shit. Sunday School also came to mind. Mom was the church organist. Then one day she ran off with the youth pastor who was ten years her junior. Twelve. I hadn’t been back to church since. Poor dad…

“I like Kevin,” he now said.

“I know you do, daddy. So do I. I just…don’t want to live with him the rest of my life. Or even another five years.” We’d been together since our senior year in college. I had a degree in Art History. But what good is that without a Master’s? A Ph.D? Now I was the associate HR director for a D.C. security firm. Very hush-hush. Military. But not bad for a 25-year-old. Right? I was climbing the ladder…

It was daddy’s turn to clear his throat. I wondered if his penis was flagging, just a little. And why didn’t he have this kind of stamina when I was riding him, his hands kneading my firm breasts? Or his lips sucking my nipples? My own hand, now…was beginning to grow weary. But better a hand than my mouth, my jaw…

“Well, darling, I can’t make that decision for you. That’s your…It’s your life. I can’t—”

“I was thinking about breaking the news to him as soon as we got back from this camping trip,” I said in a rush.

“The sooner the better,” daddy agreed. I had his consent, his approbation. That was half the battle.

“We’ll still be friends,” I conceded.

“I hope so. I like Kevin.”

“I do too! I just…”

“I understand,” daddy said. “Is there somebody else?” he asked, after a pause.

“Me? No…” I smiled. I smiled in the incomplete darkness. “I was thinking…”

Oh god, I could almost hear my dad saying to himself.

“What?”

“What?”

“No,” still smiling, still dimpled. I’m cute, right? 25? “I was thinking that if escort kartal I break up with Kevin and I move out…I could maybe move back in with you and we could…help each other out. You know?”

“Help…?”

“Yeah. Around the house. I wouldn’t be dating anybody—yet. You’re living like a monk…”

“I’m not living like a monk, Brittany.”

“Yeah? When’s the last time you got laid?”

“Stop it!”

“By someone other than me, I mean.”

I could see, or sense anyway, my dad wincing. “Don’t even go there, Britt.”

“We’re already there,” I said, stroking him faster now. “Don’t be a hypocrite, dad.”

I gave his cock a squeeze, just behind the head, and for the first time that night bent my lips to it. The taste salty-sweet. Delicious. I wanted more. More of the seed that had conceived me all those years before.

“We could fuck anytime we wanted, daddy. If I—”

“Britt? Please, darling…!”

“I would still date. Other guys. The three of us in the pool together? Not some stick-in-the-mud like Asshole nextdoor. We could—”

“Stop it! Stop it!”

I could sense it was coming. The timbre of daddy’s voice having changed. Once I’d tossed a frisbee to our pet Westie and it came down and hit him on the head. For the next hour the timbre of his bark changed. It was much…higher pitched. This, dad’s, now, was a hopeless tone. Like someone falling from a fiery building a hundred stories up. H-e-l-p…! Too late.

“I’m gonna!”

I lowered my mouth. Opened it. I confess: I do not like sucking guys’ cocks. Just ask anybody I went with in college. Conversely, though, I DO enjoy the taste of cum. I like it when a guy cums in you, then another guy eats you and then you kiss. You make out on the bed, or the rug. I like that. There are videos.

Daddy cleared his throat, sort of. It was the only relevant sound he would make at that strangled moment.

The loops of cum painting my tongue, the roof of my mouth, the back of my throat…they were oh-so-pure and delicious. Salty-sweet. Fruity. The curious smell of clean laundry.

I swallowed.

I swallowed.

I smiled. Lowered my head, eventually, to daddy’s left shoulder. Listened through his muscled flesh to his racing heart…listened to it slow, finally. Quiet. Normal.

God.

In the hazy early morning daddy, to his credit, got up and made a fresh fire in the pit and Kevin and I and daddy had a breakfast of hot coffee, eggs, Virginia ham. Delicious. As delicious, in another, saltier sense, as last night’s fresh cum.

Kevin and I sat uncomfortably next to one another on a log and Kevin said, “I woke up sometime in the middle of the night and…you were gone. Where’d you go?”

I replied, truthfully, that I couldn’t sleep and climbed out and after I peed in the woods sat on this very same log, facing outwards however, and looked in the distance at the floodlights illuminating the ruins far below and at the colored smoke wafting across the valley.

Kevin asked me how I liked my Redskins’ jersey.

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