Daughters Sex Deviance Research

Disclaimer time: This one-shot novella is a playful fetish-y story, although — since most of them aren't

my

fetishes per se — it's from an "outsider's" perspective for a lot of it. It's hard to explain but you'll see what I mean pretty quickly; check the tags if you're sensitive. As is the case with most of my stories, those demanding absolute realism probably won't like it. I really value feedback in the form of ratings and insightful comments. But mostly, I appreciate

you

for reading this. You mean the world to me; a storyteller without an audience is a lunatic gibbering alone.

All characters participating in sexual activity in these stories are 18+.

* * *

I can always tell when my daughter is upset.

"I'm fine, Dad," Amanda said with a smile. Her eyes locked with mine as she adjusted her glasses up her nose.

But I knew she wasn't. She never calls me "Dad" if she's happy, or even average — only when in the pits of despair, tormented, or in some way

very

upset. Otherwise, it's "Daddy."

Always.

"C'mon, A-Bomb..." I sat beside her on the couch and paused the episode of

The Traitors

she had on, causing Alan Cumming to stare at us with frozen bemused menace. Amanda hadn't really been watching; it was just on in the background while she was poring over her myriad college textbooks and notes strewn on the coffee table. "What's wrong?"

Her eyes darted to the right, then at me. The smile fell like a domino. "Dad, I... I'm in trouble."

My heart sank, as the implications of what being "in trouble" might mean (since she's occasionally slipped into old-timey euphemisms as a way to sound different). I swallowed hard. "In trouble, like, with a guy?"

"

Yes!

Well, no. There's no guy. That's the problem."

I felt anger swell up in my stomach. "Did someone

do something

to you and then leave?"

"No! I don't have anyone to do anything. That's why I'm in trouble!"

Amanda could be difficult to understand sometimes. Not because she was dumb; quite the opposite. She's easily the smartest one in the family, by a long shot. But she marches to the beat of her own drummer; connections that make perfect sense to her leave her mother and me confounded, because she skips the intervening steps to make it make sense.

"A-Bomb, I'm not understanding. Please... give me the between bits."

She nodded, looking at me with rueful eyes. "I signed up for a class this semester. I mean, a

lot

of classes, obviously." She gestured to the table of papers and books. "But one class is bad. It's about psychology."

I nodded, trying to keep up.

"I knew it was going to be a difficult class, but I thought I could do it! It would fill in a bunch of gaps for me that... well, because I try to know a lot about a lot of things... I thought might be useful."

She was dancing around something, but I couldn't tell what. Still, I tried to be affirming. "Okay. That makes sense..."

"But it was so out of my comfort zone that I kept putting off the biggest project, and now it's due in just over a week, and it needs so much to get done, and I can't do

any

of it alone, and I don't know where to start, and... and..."

Her flood of words and emotion threatened to overwhelm her. I leaned over on the couch to offer a hug, and she took it, taking off her glasses and leaning her warm, soft face into my neck. A few moments later she was calmer.

"So," I asked, "why haven't you done the work? I'm

sure

you're smart enough."

She broke away, and my shoulder missed her company. "It's..." She put her glasses back on. "I need to interview people. And I don't really understand the assignment, and don't feel comfortable talking about it. I..."

I nodded. Amanda had always been a bit awkward, probably because of her intellect; she has a hard time relating to other people because they don't get her. I do, and so does Carol to a certain extent, but we're also her parents; we've been with her since day one —

before

that, depending on when you're counting.

"Okay. Let's talk this through. Can I help?"

Her eyes lit up. "Oh,

would you?!

I know it's a lot to ask, but I know I can do it if you're willing!"

"Wait, I feel like you're getting ahead. Willing to do what?"

"Be interviewed, Daddy!" Her newly risen smile had lit up her face, and my heart melted as I was once again "Daddy." She started shuffling around the papers on the table in excitement.

"O-okay. If you think I'd have something interesting to say. Interviewed about what?"

She chirped with happiness as she found the paper she was looking for. "Sexual deviation."

My eyes shot open in horror and confusion.

"H-honey, I don't..." I struggled to find words. "If there is one topic I know pretty much nothing about, it's —" I gestured to her paper.

"That."

Amanda frowned slightly. "Oh, I'm sure you must have

something

I can write about..."

"A-Bomb, sweetheart... I'm a meat-and-potatoes guy. I don't want to go into

too

many details, obviously, but your mom and I are really..." I struggled to find the word. "Tapioca?"

She chuckled. "

Vanilla,

I think you meant."

"Yeah, that! We... just do the... basics?"

My daughter considered me like an insect under a cup. "And are you... fulfilled?"

"Yeah! I mean, I'm a

guy.

I'd always like to do more. But your mom and I are happy. There's nothing I could really give you."

"But, Dad!"

Dammit, I was

Dad

again.

"If I don't get

something

I can use, I'll fail the class!"

"Okay, but..." I sighed. "What,

exactly,

do you need?"

"I need to interview people who enjoy various sexual deviations about what they like about them."

"O-okay. Yeah, I don't know anything about that! And why are you taking a course like this, anyway?!?"

"It was the only one that could fit in my schedule to meet the requirements of my degree! I didn't want to delay graduating by a whole year just for

one course.

I mean, I'd be

22

then!" She said her age as of the end of next school year with a disdain that kinda hurt me as a 41-year-old, while also casually humble-bragging her accelerated education.

"I'm sorry!" I shrugged. "You should have thought about that before signing up for the course! Or at

least

tried to address it earlier than a week before the project is due... If there were anything I could do, I would. But anything I could offer would just be guesswork, and without any actual experience with this stuff I—"

"That's it!" Her face beamed the smile of a toothpaste commercial. "Oh,

Daddy!

You're a genius."

And back to "Daddy"...

"Wait, what? A-Bomb what are you—"

She jumped off the couch. "You said it yourself! '

Actual experience!'

Don't you see?! If we do this together, then you'll

have

experience, and then you can offer your insight. It's

perfect!

Most people participating in deviant sexual behavior don't have an untainted baseline comparison, so I imagine they can't even articulate the experience as easily for the benefit of a lay audience. But you? Anything you'd offer your insight on is untarnished, exactly as someone who

doesn't

know the material would present it. It's like asking someone's opinions on hot sauce who's never had anything stronger than Miracle Whip... it's

perfect

, Daddy!"

She folded her arms in self-satisfaction across her white "

Find X

—

I found it

" triangle-geometry T-shirt, tucked under her large bosom that bobbed as she breathed triumphantly. God, her brilliance was radiating.

"But... I mean... I don't even know what you're talking about!"

"Daddy, it's simple. I need interviews from those who have done deviant sexual acts. If

you

do deviant sexual acts, then I can interview

you

!" She clapped her hands together in a pose usually reserved for mad scientists.

"What?!" I sputtered. "

Absolutely not.

Your mother would

never

go for it. I'm sorry; she's even more conservative than I am in this regard — and

I'm

100% tapio-

vanilla.

"

She tilted her lenses and folded her index finger on her lip, looking down contemplatively. After a moment's thought, she sighed. "You're right, Daddy."

Oh, thank goodness,

I thought.

She's finally seeing reason. Wait; did she just say "Dadd-"

"So,

I'll

have to be your partner!" she chirped, stroking a strand of her red hair out of her eyes and behind her ear.

"Are you

crazy?!

I'm not going to be your partner..."

"Sexual partner," clarified my daughter.

"

Sexual

partner, for... some class?!"

She looked shocked and hurt. "Y-you want me to fail, Dad?"

Crap; back to

Dad.

"No! Of

course

not! But... But, A-Bomb, listen to yourself!" I was pleading. "Fathers and daughters just don't

do

that!"

"You don't know that! You said yourself you're really vanilla. There may be

hundreds

of stories out there about daddies and their adult daughters having all sorts of loving, happy, fulfilling sex that you just haven't heard about!"

I laughed dismissively. "I assure you, there's no place with stories like that. Once you're older, you'll se—"

"But it doesn't even matter, Dad!"

She was actually annoyed, maybe even angry — an emotion that's relatively rare for Amanda.

"Wh-what do you mean?" I said, somewhat taken aback.

"It's not sex! Not what

we're

talking about."

"But you want us to do

deviant sexual acts

together!"

"Exactly! And you have

no interest!

It's the

interest

that makes it

sexual.

" Her voice shifted to... super-scientist mode? It's difficult to explain, but normally she's just smart, and sometimes she's

scary

-smart. And every so often she'll go

beyond

that, like a cute, red-headed version of Ultron.

"I... I'm not sure I follow."

Amanda sighed, her eyes focusing on nothing in the middle distance. "Pretend I'm a serial killer."

I looked at her skeptically. "This has taken a weird turn..."

"Hear me out. I'm a serial killer. The... Lakewood Lunatic."

"Press gave a catchy name," I nodded.

"It was in the letters I sent the press." She smiled. "Anyway, I'm attacking you. Mwah-hah-hah," she said, flatly. "I'm a psycho-killer, about to do all the psycho-killing." She exaggeratedly swung her arms at me, in a flailing attack that was equal parts unnatural and inept.

I nodded. "Okay. Weird, but I get it."

"You need to defend yourself. It's your life or mine. You lash out — and choke me."

"Sure..."

She looked expectantly at me. "Well?"

"Well, what?"

"Choke me!"

"But-"

She sighed, grabbed my hands, and placed them around her throat. "So, like, you're choking me. Argh. Argh. Argh." Her "screams" were bland and emotionless. "Right?"

"O-okay..."

"Now, there's absolutely

nothing

sexual

about

this, right?!" I could feel her words vibrate against my clutched hands, her neck's pulse on my fingertips, as her breasts heaved lightly up and down in her excited exertions inches away from me.

"R-r-right," I stammered.

"Exactly!" She smiled. "You're just doing what you

need

to in order to survive!"

I nodded, hiding my confliction.

"The police wouldn't be like, 'So... when you battled for your life fighting against the Lakewood Lunatic... you weren't doing that because you were some kind of

sex pervert

or anything, were you?' "

"N-no." I laughed; her "donut-eating cop" voice always cracked me up, especially because of Lakewood's longstanding friendly rivalry between the police and the rest of the fire department.

"Exactly!" She smiled, and a moment passed between us before she looked me in the eyes. "You... can let go of my neck now, Daddy. I-if you want."

"

Right!

Sorry." I dropped my hands to my side, two dead fish with conflicted emotions.

"Now, then," she stepped back. "The act of choking me in that instance had nothing to do with

erotic asphyxiation.

"

I frowned. "Erotic asphy- oh, the David Carradine thing?"

"Well, his case was

auto

-erotic asphyxiation. Supposedly. But

regular

erotic asphyxiation can be when you choke your

partner.

You see it a lot in bad pornos. It's dangerous." She giggled. "We won't do

that,

Daddy."

"R-right."

"But you see what I'm saying, don't you?!" Her face beheld a blazing smile again. "I mean, you weren't turned on

in the slightest

by choking me, because the act didn't carry any sexual interest, desire, or connotations toward me. Right?!"

I nodded, trying to shift my sweatpants nonchalantly when she wasn't looking.

"So, you were doing an act that is sexual in one circumstance but not in another. And that's what we can do: the deviant activities, together, trying to discern what's going on scientifically. But since you don't have any interest in those acts

as

sexual activities, they

don't count!

"

When she got in full-blown "Oops! All Logic" mode, she was almost hypnotic. "No, b-but even then we'd still be doi-"

"Antonie van Leeuwenhoek was a Dutch microbiologist and the first person to observe spermatozoa under a microscope, in 1677. He used his own sperm! He was afraid to start the research because he didn't think people would respect him, but he finally did, and science is in his debt for it. Do you think he

enjoyed

taking the sample from himself?!"

"Well, I-"

"

No!

Exactly; he knew it was just for science. And that's what we'll be doing together.

Science!

Look, we don't even have to be nude or anything to start with, I don't think. We can start with podophilia."

"WHAT?!"

"

Feet,

Daddy. Foot fetish. The most-common deviancy toward a body part or object without sexual connotations."

"B-but I don't have any interest in your feet!"

"

Exactly!

" She tossed her arms up in exasperation. "That's what this whole discussion is

about!

"

I felt like I was in an Abbott and Costello routine. "I don't know..."

"Look, this is as easy as it can be! I promise: We'll both be fully clothed, you'll look at my feet and tell me what you think, and I'll take notes."

"I... I..." She was so damn convincing.

"Pleaaaase,

Daddy?" She looked at me, her begging green eyes encircled and embiggened by her glasses. "You... you'd be saving my life, like you saved

yours

from the Lakewood Lunatic."

I sighed. "Fine. For you, A-Bomb. Only for you."

"Promise?" she asked, her voice innocently pleading. I nodded with my melting heart. "Oh, thank you, Daddy!!" She flung her arms around my neck, choking me in a tight hug as she pressed her body against mine. I felt my love for her rising.

After too long a moment, she broke away, leaning back to press her pelvis against mine while still wrapping her hands around my neck. "Can we do it now, Daddy?" she said, her gaze looking excitedly in mine.

"Do it..." My eyes searched hers, and I realized I wasn't breathing.

"The research?"

"Right! Yes. The research." I had today off, but Carol was still at work at the E.R. for another six hours; I didn't know how I was going to explain this to her, but I figured that was Future Dan's problem.

"Okay! I'll need about an hour?"

I nodded, and she wandered off.

I took the time to clean around the house: dishes, folding laundry, playing "Dark Side or Not?" with the leftovers in the fridge.

I was seated in the tan La-Z-Boy sorting through junk mail when she came out of her bedroom.

I was not prepared.

She was still wearing the "

Find X

—

I found it

" shirt, but she'd changed from her slacks to a pair of snug blue shorts. The fabric encircled her thighs, and her legs were completely naked from her ankles to the bottom border of the cerulean cloth. Both the curves of her ass and her amble chest were augmented by her decision to tuck the top into the shorts, increasing the tension on the curve-covering shirt and providing full sight of her hips and points nearby.

I found it,

indeed,

some animalistic part of my brain offered.

However, the full visibility of her legs was almost certainly in support for the most-unusual part of her ensemble: her too-tall open-toed red heels that exposed most of her feet, covering them in several straining red straps like they were cannibals about to be interviewed by Jodie Foster.

Those beautiful feet had been painted with similarly crimson nail polish, turning each toe into a participant in a five-part dotted line.

I recognized the shoes as having belonged to Carol, a bygone era of college fun. She hasn't dressed like that in decades.

Nor had my wife taught her daughter the art of how to walk in high heels. Amanda obviously also hadn't taken the initiative to practice on her own. Both these facts became evident as the young woman wobbled from her bedroom into the living room, her clear attempt to look sexy was somehow both undermined yet accentuated by her incompetence. My standing to admire her arrival was quickly rewarded moments later, as she tripped and fell,

eeep

ing into my muscular arms.

I remained perfectly still as she positioned her legs back beneath her for support. Holding my hands as she was once again stable, Amanda smiled, equal parts embarrassed and coy as she stepped away. "Th-thank you, Daddy." She adjusted her wire rims and looked at me. "Studies have shown that clumsiness enhances attraction." She looked down to left. "Well, if the clumsy person is a woman trying to attract a man, at least. Otherwise, it's a turn-off."

I smiled. "You're fine, A-Bomb."

"Is that an affirmation, or an assessment?"

"I... what?"

"How do I

look?

" She moved her arms to the side, stepping one leg forward.

"You're... beautiful." The pause was where I'd given up trying to be witty, settling into a word choice that was tempered enough I hopefully didn't give my own daughter the wrong idea about her father's thoughts. Standing as she was in those three-inch heels, her eyes were nearer than they usually were, and I somehow felt closer to her as result. Yet, even with the added height the shoes provided, my fit body still towered over hers, which jolted through my mind an odd conflicting wave of emotion, equal parts protective and possessive.

She smiled. "Thanks! All right, let's get to it." She pulled out her phone and fumbled with it before putting it on the nearby coffee table; I quickly realized she was recording our conversation. "So... what do you think of my feet?"

I sat down on the floor in front of Amanda, admiring her. Her pale-white legs were stunning in their purity. She avoided the sun for the most part, and even when she

did

go out, her fair skin ensured that she never retained color for long. Her snowy skin stood in sharp contrast to the red that accentuated her feet — scarlet lines of leather and dots of paint that defined and drew attention to the occupants of her high heels.

She bent over in front of me and ran her hands (with unpainted nails) along her tight toned calves. I could see her feet quiver slightly from the strain of remaining balanced. "The shoes force me to adjust my feet forward and upward, making my leg muscles strain. I hope that's okay."