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I emptied my glass, allowing the velvety smooth liquid to envelope my tongue. The rich aroma filled my nostrils, before that all too familiar burn comfortably gripped my throat.
I sighed as I leaned forward to place the glass on the coffee table, the milky ice cubes tinkling in hopeful punctuation. There was another half a glass or so in the bottle, I knew. And it called to me. It wasn’t the numbness of the alcohol, I lied to myself. Baileys was her favourite. And every bottle I drank brought her back to me that little bit more.
My eyes fell on the photo frame next to the bottle, and I reached for that instead. I pushed back into the couch, snorting a laugh. She looked dreadful. She always did. But there was something about her that drove me absolutely wild.
The first time I saw her, she was manning the cash register at Subway. I’d left her fellow Sandwich Artist with an instruction to pile on all the salads, and moved along the counter to pay. She was tall and gangly in that ill-fitting purple uniform. Her eyes were self-consciously cast down, and untidy swathes of chestnut hair fell across her gaunt, horsey face. As I watched her avoid my gaze while she shuffled around in the register, I found myself captivated by her. To this day, I don’t know what it was, but somehow, she got to me. For the first time since puberty, I was stricken with a spontaneous erection, right there in the queue of a sandwich shop.
Her cold, clammy hand brushed mine when she handed me my change. Her touch was electric. And in that moment, I knew I had to have her. I held her hand lightly as she placed the coins in my palm, causing her to look up. I smiled at her, and she blushed and looked down again, unfamiliar with the attention.
“Would you like to have dinner with me?” I smiled gently.
Her blue eyes locked on mine, shocked, confused, suspicious. I persisted, as best I could with a growing audience of Subway Sandwich Art Lovers bottlenecking beside me, and the minimum-wage sauce squeezer on the other side of the counter equally surprised. But finally, still blushing, she agreed to go out with me that night.
Even though I had arrived ten minutes early, she was already there waiting for me outside the restaurant. Far from stylish, she wore a beige, thick weave cardigan, done up over a pair of faded blue jeans that were a good three sizes too big for her. Her hair was the same uncontrolled mess, covering her face as she slouched against the wall, wringing her hands nervously.
She was a gorgeous, frumpy vision.
I strode straight up to her, snatched her into my arms and kissed her deeply. She was caught off guard, squealing her surprise into my mouth. I held her tightly around her back, enjoying the subtle taper of her torso. My hands overlapped as I caressed her, then slowly let them rub up into her hair as she sank into the kiss.
Her mouth was so soft and warm, and wet. Our lips pressed firmly together, sucking gently at each other, as our tongues swirled around and around. She was delicious.
“Sorry,” I whispered, eventually pulling away. “I — um — just had to kiss you.”
She leaned back in my embrace, her head tilted to the side, and her face lit up in the most beautiful, confident smile I’ve ever seen on anyone, ever.
The change in her was instantaneous: her body language; the blaze in her eyes; even the tone of her voice. She was radiant.
The rest, as they say, is history. She felt pregnant later that night. And six months later, we were married.
The seashell picture frame in my hand held one of our wedding photos. It was the two of us standing outside the church. Her hair was still badly cut. Her cheap, self-applied makeup was smeared from tears during the ceremony. And that second hand dress, horrifically altered to accommodate her pregnant belly, hung off her like it had been thrown over a hatstand.
She was so beautiful.
My eyes brimmed at the memory, and I replaced the photo on the table. I reached for the bottle, and drained the last of the Irish Cream into my glass.
“Fuck!” I gasped, wringing my eyes shut and throwing my head back.
I missed her so much.
Phoebe fumbling loudly at the door ripped me from my thoughts. It sounded like she was laughing as she fumbled to get her key in the lock. She obviously had one of her friends with her, or at least on the other end of her mobile phone.
It was a bit early, I thought, only eleven o’clock. But at least she was home safe. I quickly drank down the last of the Baileys and took the bottle to the recycling bin under the sink. A quick rinse of the glass before I slammed it in the dishwasher disposed of the last of the evidence.
When Phoebe finally burst through the door, it was clear that she was crying, rather than laughing. She was wailing in loud, hysterical sobs. She slammed the front door behind her and stormed off to her bedroom in noisy stiletto clicks across the tiled floor.
“Phoebe, Sweetheart?” I called after her.
Her bedroom door slammed shut in reply, cevizli escort the sound of her crying on the other side barely muffled.
I knocked on her door, but got no response. “Sweetheart, what’s wrong?” I called through the door. Still no answer.
Pressing down on the lever, I inched her door open just enough to poke my head through. She was lying face down on her bed, howling into her pillow. Her whole body shook with every sob.
“Phoebe?” I called gently. “Sweetheart, talk to me. What’s going on?”
“Go away!” she screamed into her pillow, then turned onto her side so that she was facing away from me.
She tucked her knees up into the foetal position. The little black dress she’d gone out in pulled up as she did, exposing almost all of her long, shapely thighs. She hadn’t even taken her shoes off, the long black stiletto heels threatening to puncture her pale blue bedspread.
I responded as all fathers do when they’re ordered to go away by their hysterical daughters, I went in to comfort her.
Phoebe was racked with violent sobs, whining desperately as she cried. I sat on the bed, placing my hand gently on her bare shoulder. My touch had no effect, so I lay down, spooning up against her and wrapping my arms tightly around her. I buried my face into her mane of dark brown hair, breathing in that coconut and honey scent, while she continued to cry.
I held my baby girl, just letting her express all the painful emotions that had overcome her.
It was several minutes before the sobs eventually subsided, giving way to long, deep breaths and the occasional sniffle. I kissed the crown of her head, after a moment, and Phoebe slowly turned over. She wrapped herself around me, nuzzling into my chest. I stroked her long, thick hair, and planted a soft kiss on her forehead.
“Are you okay?” I whispered.
Phoebe screwed up her face and began to cry again. She shook her head as she buried her face into my chest.
“Hey,” I soothed, stroking her soft hair. “Shhh, it’s okay…”
“It’s not okay!” Her voice was strained and high-pitched into my chest. “I’m a freak!”
I was shocked by the statement, frozen and unable to find the words to respond. “I don’t under…”
“I’m a freak, Daddy!” She lifted her head up to face me. Her eyes were red and swollen, and her mascara was smeared in blurry panda smudges. “No one’s ever going to want me!”
“Hey, slow down,” I breathed. “Tell me what happened.”
“I can’t,” she said, hiding her face in my chest again.
We’d been here before: a daughter in desperate need of a mother, and nothing but me to carry the load. And it cut to the bone every single time.
“Oh, Daddy, I’m sorry,” Phoebe half gasped, half whined. Obviously the wave of grief that washed across me was evident. “It’s just…I don’t know how to talk to you about this.”
“Sweetheart, you can talk to me about anything. You know that.”
“I know, Daddy.” She paused, then swallowed. “It’s just…it’s…about sex.”
I swallowed myself.
I hunkered down with a deep sigh, then coaxed Phoebe into talking to me about what had happened, and what was troubling her. These conversations had always been awkward, but it was so important to me that she felt comfortable about sex.
She explained that she had gone home with a guy who was part of her group of friends. She had been interested in him for quite some time. And after months of flirting, he had finally taken the hint, and made his move.
“He wouldn’t turn off the lights, Daddy,” she sobbed. “He said he wanted to look at me. I told him I wanted to turn them off, but he just wouldn’t.
“I should have just left,” she went on.
“Why didn’t you?”
“I really liked him, Daddy.” Her tears overtook her again, and it took another minute for Phoebe to calm down.
I lay there silently, waiting for her to continue, stroking her hair with my left hand, and her upper arm with my right.
“He started kissing me. And then he unzipped my dress, and I was just standing there in my underwear.” She paused. “And then he undid my bra.
“Oh, Daddy, it was awful,” she wept. “I tried to hold it on, but he pulled it away. Oh, his face! He was so grossed out. He said my nipples looked like pen lids. He actually stepped away from me, like this.” She leaned back from me, holding her hands up in front of her, as if surrendering.
“Oh, Sweetheart,” I consoled as best I could, squeezing her back against me. I had no idea her nipples were so long. Regardless, I tried to reassure her. “Don’t worry what a jerk like that thinks of you. You’re so beaut…”
“That’s not all,” she said. “Oh God, I was so stupid!”
“What happened?” I whispered.
“I said, ‘I can leave my bra on if you want.'”
I couldn’t help but sigh.
“I know, Daddy,” she whined. “It was so stupid. I should have just left. But I just liked him so much.
“But he said, ‘Okay.” And I did my bra back up. We started kissing again, cihangir escort but I could tell he was still really freaked out.” Phoebe took a second, fortifying herself for the next part of the account. “he wasn’t really into it.” She swallowed. “So then I started blowing him.”
I felt my body stiffen at the admission. It wasn’t what I wanted to hear from my eighteen year old daughter, especially with such an ungrateful little prick. She deserved so much better.
“He was into it again,” she went on.
“I bet,” I scoffed.
Phoebe managed to snort a small laugh herself, then continued with her story. “Eventually, he ended up on top of me on his bed. I asked him to turn off the light again, but he just ignored me. And then I tried to get on my hands and knees, but he wouldn’t let me turn over.”
What was coming next, I suspected. My heart began breaking in anticipation.
“He said, I really want to see this.’ And he started pulling down my panties. I really didn’t want him to see me,” she cried.
“I tried covering myself, but he kept moving my hands. And then he pulled my legs apart.” Phoebe groaned, clenching her jaw tightly.
“He was like, ‘What the fuck! That’s so gross! You’ve got a dick!’
“I tried to tell him that it was just my clit. But he was jumping around the room, freaking out all over the place. He was calling me a hermaphrodite, and a fag. And he said he should beat the shit out of me.”
My blood boiled at the thought of my little girl being attacked. I was numb with rage.
“And then he started saying something about a crying game, or something. I don’t know. I just started crying, and got dressed, and ran out. He was like, Get the fuck out!’ and all that. I had to call a taxi from outside.
“He was so mean, Daddy,” Phoebe sobbed. “I really liked him.”
“Oh, Honey,” I sighed. “I know.”
We lay there holding each other until Phoebe fell silent, breathing deeply into my chest. I didn’t know what to say, so I just focussed on the tactile sensation of her hair and her skin. She was so soft.
“What’s a crying game?” she sniffled a few minutes later.
“It’s a movie,” I explained, giving her the twenty-five word synopsis. “But that’s got nothing to do with you, Sweety. You’re a girl. I snorted slightly, “You’re a woman. One hundred per cent.”
“Nobody’s ever going to want me,” she whined, which then quickly became heartbreaking wails.
When the intensity of her sorrow subsided, I sat her up on her bed, sitting up next to her. She slipped off her shoes, and dropped them off the side of the bed. I held her head in my hands, her face only an inch from mine. Behind the puffy red and streaked grey, her hazel eyes were so beautiful — light brown, almost grey, with tiny flecks of green and gold.
“Phoebe, Sweetheart, you are so beautiful.”
“Oh, Daddy,” she dismissed immediately, rolling her eyes so hard, her head flew back.
“Don’t get me wrong,” I shot back. “You look like a fuckin’ train wreck right now. You’ve been crying for an hour, and you’re covered in snot.”
“Oh God!” she panicked, reaching for a tissue on her bedside table, desperate to clean herself up.
“You are beautiful,” I said forcefully. Then with a smile, and the best fake British accent I could summon, “Love, you’re just gorgeous!”
Phoebe wrinkled her nose at me, her brow furrowed. “Michael Caine?”
“No! Gok Wan. You know, How to Look Good Naked.” I was indignant. “You made me watch it.”
She knew where I was going, and sat back defensively. “Daddy, no!”
I gave her a playful grin.
Phoebe squealed, then darted off her bed for the door. I leapt up after her, snatching her up around the waist and spinning her back into the room in a flurry of dark hair and cocktail dress. With her back to me, she was hugging my arms and laughing.
“come on,” I said seriously. “Let’s do this.
She turned her head to face me, meeting my gaze. I could tell she recognised the sincerity in my eyes, and her body relaxed in my arms.
“Okay,” she whispered.
I loosened my grip around her waist and stomach, letting my hands slide around until they were resting on her narrow hips. As we stepped across the room to the mirrored wardrobe doors, I could feel the waistband of her panties beneath her dress, and the flex and roll of her muscles in my hands.
The reflection of Phoebe standing there in a sexy little black dress, bare feet and dishevelled makeup was surprisingly alluring. She was tall, like her mother, with only my eyes and forehead poking up above the top of her head. Thankfully, she took more after me, with none of the gangly awkwardness of her mother. The rest of my body framed her lithe form, with my shoulders extending out past hers.
“Hmm,” she breathed.
“Yeah, you probably need to clean yourself up a bit,” I smiled into the back of her head.
She laughed, and skipped off to the bathroom. The sound of running water, sliding drawers and erenköy escort banging cupboards filtered into her room from the bathroom across the hall. I waited patiently, watching the doorway for her return. And when I saw the bathroom light click off, I couldn’t help but smile.
Phoebe padded back into her bedroom. Her shoulders were slumped slightly, but she looked straight into my eyes as she settled back into position in between me and the mirror. Her face was still a little raw, but otherwise clean and natural.
“Wow. That’s much better,” I smiled, tilting my head around to the side so that she could fully see my face in the mirror. Then again with the accent, “You’re gorgeous, Love. Goctastic!”
She silently laughed at me, shaking her head. Placing my hands on her shoulders, I kissed her on the cheek.
“So, how do you feel?”
“Fine,” she said. “But this isn’t the problem.”
“Okay then,” I said indifferently. And with one, smooth motion, I unzipped the back of her dress down to the base of her spine.
Phoebe gasped. And before she had a chance to react, I hooked my thumbs into the thin shoulder straps and peeled them down over her arms. The material caught briefly on the front of her bra, and I had to slide my hands around her full breasts to free it. The dress fell to her waist, bunching at her hips.
We stared into each other’s eyes through the mirror, and I ran my fingers down her flat stomach, burrowing in between her panties and the folds of her dress. Sliding my hands around to the gentle flare of her hips, I pushed the dress past her curves, and it splashed to the floor, pooling at her feet.
She took a deep breath, her chest and shoulders rising as she took in the sight of herself in nothing but a frilly black lace bra and matching panties. Then she sighed suddenly, with a drop of her shoulders.
“Are you kidding me?” I asked, surprised at her reaction. “You’re stunning.”
“Yeah,” she breathed impassively. “Until these come off.”
I met her eyes in the mirror and sighed. Phoebe lifted her chin fractionally, entrenching her insecurity. Her hair fell about her shoulders, and I combed it back with my fingers so that all the soft, dark strands hung down past her shoulder blades. The cleavage exposed from the top of her bra was impressive.
Flicking the tag out from her bra strap, I looked at the size. “Ten-C? What’s that? I thought it was supposed to be thirty-six or something?”
“Oh God, Daddy.” Phoebe nearly clocked me in the face as she threw her head back in another epic eye roll. “Ten is my dress size, and C is the cup size. Thirty-six and all that is American sizing. I think it’s inches around the chest.” With that, her fingertips traced around the bottom of her bra to her sides.
“Hmm.” I looked up from the tag again. “So you’re rocking a pair of C cups? Dude!” My smile and bobbing head punctuating my impressed tone.
Phoebe groaned with another roll of her eyes, but she couldn’t keep the corners of her mouth from curling up. When our eyes met again, a full smile broke out across her face.
“So talk to me,” I smiled back. “What is it about these perfect breasts you don’t like?”
“It’s my nipples.” Her smile faded away, but her tone was still light. “They’re really big. I mean, they poke out really badly.” She started to cringe.
“Well, let’s get a look at them then.” I kept my tone light, trying to downplay the significance of her insecurity. Then I whispered, “Take off your bra when you’re ready.”
Time stood still, with Phoebe and I staring into the mirror. She wasn’t moving. Her arms hung by her sides, her thumbs twitching back and forth across her thighs.
“Oh come on, Love,” I flamboyantly called in my best British accent. “Get your bangers out and give us a look, yeah?”
Phoebe’s stomach tightened with a single bout of silent laughter. And then when we locked eyes, she laughed again.
“Go on, Love!”
“Okay, okay,” she giggled, reaching behind her back and finding the clasp.
Her bra popped open, and her hands quickly flapped around the front to catch the cups. Her eyes were serious as she looked at me, her head tilted to the right. I gave her a little smile, then peeled the shoulder straps down until they fell into the crooks of her elbows. Then, with one last sigh, Phoebe lowered her hands, letting the bra fall away with them.
“Whoa,” I gasped involuntarily.
Those spectacular , full globes stood proudly on her chest, without the slightest hint of succumbing to gravity. Her deep pink areolas contrasted beautifully with her creamy porcelain skin. And whatever issues she had with her nipples, were a nonsense. They were large, protruding out about an inch, but they were so deliciously puffy and suckable.
In that moment, just for a second, I honestly forgot she was my daughter.
“Sweetheart,” I beamed. “I don’t…what are you…what the fuck? Your nipples are gorgeous.”
She shifted awkwardly, tilting her head and lifting one shoulder. “It’s when they get hard. They’re a lot longer.”
“Okay, so make them go hard and let’s have a look,” I suggested.
Phoebe wrinkled her nose at me, bemused. “I can’t just make them go hard.”
“What about if you pinch them a little?”
She laughed, holding her hands over her breasts. “Dad, I’m not pinching my nipples in front of you.”
Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
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