Her face, chiseled chin, straight nose, high cheekbones and full, arching red lips were framed in a halo of plaited hair. But Jesus, his senses screamed at him, she was nearly naked, and it was the gown that she wore that had taken his breath away and sent his mind reeling. It was nothing but a negligee; sleeveless and sheer. Sheer enough, in fact, to be transparent. Not practically or nearly transparent, but completely transparent. It was one of those intimate garments that was intended to entice and seduce; to be worn for minutes, at most, before achieving its intended purpose, and then, to be discarded in a hasty heap at the foot of the bed or tossed over a lampshade. It was tied in front at the neck with a satin bow. The full swell of her breasts, rising and falling slowly, was clearly visible under that thin veil. The ruby tips of her nipples pointing through the fabric were as clearly exposed as if she was wearing nothing at all.
One hand held the garment together just below her breasts, while the other was positioned jauntily on her cocked hip. The gown was far too short. As a result the ruffled hem barely concealed the upper half of her buttocks in the back, and in the front... Oh my God, he gasped silently, wiping his mouth with his wet palm, she's not wearing any panties, either. In front, the ruffle terminated just above the golden triangle where her thighs came together. Her long shapely, tapered legs with her soccer-player thighs flashed in the moonlight. Her bare feet, nails freshly painted just that afternoon, were positioned in a classic dancer's pose.
"Well, Dad, do you like it?" she asked with a voice as sweet as the smell of honeysuckle.
He gasped for air, desperately seeking a breath to bring him back to his senses, but it eluded him.
"Whaa? Where did you get that?" he croaked breathlessly. Jeez, he thought in self-rebuke, of all the stupid things to say. Tell her to get dressed, stupid.
"Oh, this?" she answered coyly, and lifting a front corner to indicate the gown, exposed even more of herself. "I found it in mom's dresser, down below."
He leaned forward, straining for a closer look, and the scent of her perfume washed over him. He blinked; his palms were sweating freely.
"Here? On the boat?" he wheezed in disbelief. "It looks just like the one your mother bought for our wedding anniversary about five years ago, when we went to Cancun. But, she hated it and said she took it back as soon as we got home." Idiot, he screamed silently at himself, where are you going with this? Who the hell cares where it came from or whose it is; just tell her to take the damn thing off, right now.
"Well, I don't know about that, daddy," she responded with a calculating look. "I found it in the back of a drawer just a while ago. Do I look OK in it?"
"Darling, you look wonderful, but..." he began earnestly, abandoning the inane interrogation.
"Thanks, Dad," she interrupted brightly. "I wasn't sure you'd like it, especially since it was mom's."
"No, no, baby, you look beautiful in it, absolutely wonderful, but..." he resumed, attempting to renew his protest. You goddamn fool, he raged within, either chastise or complement, but don't do both in the same sentence. You either want her naked or you don't, make up your mind.
"I know it doesn't fit exactly right; I am a little taller than Mom. And, somehow the second set of ties got torn off, so I can't tie it in the middle," she said apologetically, pointing to the gaping opening at her midriff. "But that's OK, isn't it daddy. I mean it's pretty dark out here and all. It's not like you can really see anything, is it?"
Don was gasping for air like a fish in stagnant water. Fit right? Torn? Won't stay closed? Her breasts were swaying under that fabric with every word, every gesture. Dark? Hell, he thought, with this light I could read a newspaper in her hand, if she held it still for me. Her full breasts lifted the fabric, bronzed globes firmed by countless hours of exercise rose from her chest with barely a hint of a crease. Her nipples, hard, engorged, pointed defiantly at him, tracing little circles on the cloth with each rise and fall of her breath. Too short? My Gawd. The hem fell just across the top of her pubic triangle. Her privates are hanging in my face and all she says is the thing's too short.
"Baby," he croaked, attempting to collect himself, trying to reestablish some control over the situation by concealing his indecision. "Baby, don't you think that gown's too revealing?"
She regarded him coolly; her eyes shining in the pale light were unflinching, calculating, sizing him up and measuring the strength of his resolve. Her eyes narrowed and she gave a low, throaty laugh. Her hands, beginning a slow, deliberately teasing descent, slid from her shoulders, over the bulge of her breasts to the flat plane of her stomach, finally coming to rest on her thighs, smoothing the fabric with her palms as they passed over it. She smiled, watching him unconsciously lick his lips as his eyes followed her hands down the length of her body. Her voice, husky and thick, floated vaguely toward his mind like nuns and buoys emerging from a dense fog.
"Why, daddy. I thought you knew that I'm not that modest. I just love dancing in the nude, especially to "Prelude"; it's sort of my interpretation of the piece. You don't really mind too much, do you?"
It was a declarative statement, not an interrogatory, and it extended no invitation for reply. He squirmed in his seat and took another long pull on the bottle, emptying it. He couldn't tear his eyes from her body. They roved openly from her face to her bust to her flared hips and well-turned legs and up again. She watched silently, expectantly. Sweat beaded on his face and neck as he struggled to avert his gaze. His heart pounded wildly, beating his words to froth on his lips.
"Baby, I just don't..."
"Daddy," she interrupted sharply. Confidently, she advanced toward him, placing one foot directly in front of the other like a model on a runway, until she was standing directly in front of him, inches away; she was so close the heavy wash from his labored breath caused her negligee to sway. He squirmed, fidgeting, while anxiously trying to hold his wind in his lungs. She leaned forward and put both her hands on his shoulders. Her fingers gripped his flesh tightly. His muscles tensed in her grasp. Her eyes held his, locking his mind to hers and bending him to her will.
Her voice lowered, became thick and sultry. "Daddy, it will be alright. All you have to do is relax and enjoy the show. I'm going to do this for you."
He gaped at her heavy breasts that were hanging pendulously just inches from his mouth. Saliva nearly choked him as he swallowed, gulping. His tongue thrashed against his lips wetting them nervously. Her grip tightened on his shoulders as though driving the force of her will into him through her nails. Her breasts moved under the gossamer fabric, her nipples tantalizing close to his quivering lips. Below the valley of her breasts, he could see her golden triangle, and the scintillating scent of her awakening womanhood rose toward his flared nostrils.
"And, besides, there's no one here but you and me. This dance is just for you, daddy. No one need ever know what we do tonight, cause I sure won't be telling them and neither will you."
His eyes widened, his pulse beat quickened at her conspiratorial suggestion. Conflicting thoughts and emotions raged in his mind. Push her away, stand up and tell her to put on some clothes, his inner voice raged at him, but he remained motionless, pinioned against the ropes circling the deck, unable to move or resist. Don, you fool, put an end to this, the voice screamed in his ear. He shuffled his feet ineffectually. With great effort he lifted his hand to extricate himself from her grip, but his aim was erratic and the back of his hand brushed against her breast. He jerked his hand away as though touched by fire; the contact seared his flesh. Another voice, less strident, more soothing and seductive, spoke within his mind in admiration of the smooth texture of the girl's flesh, the remarkable resilience of her breast and it's firmness.
Those voices; sometimes one or two, sometimes many; voices pushing him there, pulling him here, always in contention in his mind. Sometimes there was such a cacophony of conflicting voices shrieking at him in confused babble that he sought refuge by curling under his desk and stuffing his shirttails into his ears. The voices never permitting him to do that which he needs to do or to enjoy the things he does. The soft voice spoke to him soothingly; it's only one dance, Don, after all. Come on, man, be reasonable; the kid's got her heart set on it and you're gonna spoil it for her. And, she is so, so beautiful; look at those breasts and her legs. And what about that ass of hers, fella; ever seen a better ass than that? Don't you want to look, just a little? No harm in just looking, is there? What's the worry? Nobody's here to see, anyway. Just one dance and then it'll be over. You can jump in the lake and cool off afterward, buddy. Just one dance. How long will that take, two minutes, three, tops? Actually, eight and a half, he thought in rejoinder, remembering with uncanny accuracy the duration of the performance to be eight and a half minutes on the dot.
At the touch of his hand on her breast, she looked at him more closely; the quick flash of her smile acknowledged the contact and signaled her acceptance of it. Her fingertips felt the tension in his shoulders; she sensed his struggle and his confusion. He shook his head feebly, but she knew that she had won the battle. His resistance slackened. She held his gaze, feeling the tension ebb from his muscles as he slumped in unspoken capitulation.
Her father's crumbling resistance emboldened her. She expected he would resist allowing her to dance in such dishabille, but she knew with certainty that he lacked the strength or the desire to actually prevent it. Hadn't she been aware of him looking at her, watching her while he pretended to be doing something else, like read the paper? And, didn't she catch him staring down her dress at Brooke's wedding reception last Spring, and, when he looked up and saw her watching him, didn't he nearly have a stroke? And, since then, since realizing his growing interest in her body, hadn't she been secretly testing him by not wearing a bra, sometimes, or even panties, and carelessly exposing herself to him when they were unobserved? Isn't it cute how he gets all confused and nervous, and the longer she lets him look, the worse he gets. Like just the other day, when they were in the den together watching TV and she pretended she had lost an earring in the couch. She was wearing a mini skirt and had slipped off her panties, when she realized they were alone in the house. She had made a big production of searching among the cushions, even putting one knee on the edge, while she leaned far over to reach into the deep crevice under the back cushion.
