To daughters who know what they want!
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My mother died when I was 10 years old.
My father focused on raising me, their only child. I was heartbroken, but Daddy was there for me. He held me in his arms and told me it was just him and me. From then on, just the two of us, and we did everything together.
There were nights when I felt the loss more than others. On those nights, Daddy would bring his pillow and sleep on the floor next to my bed until I fell asleep. I got through the first couple of years by leaning on him.
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Years later I looked back over the years that followed Mom's death, and all the my father meant to me.
I started playing soccer when I was 11. Daddy wanted me to try it, so I did. He was there for every game, shouting encouragement and telling me afterwards how well I played. Several years later, when I was 16 and a starting midfielder for my high school team, he showed me a video he took during my first game when I was 11. It was magnet ball! A gaggle of little girls crowded around a ball and kicking it. I laughed until I cried and hugged him.
About a month before my 12th birthday, I woke up one morning with blood on my panties and on the bed. I screamed for Daddy, and he came running. He took one look and sat beside me on the bed, telling me nothing was wrong. He sat with me for a long time, explaining what menstruation was, about monthly periods, and he even apologized over and over for not teaching me about it in advance and for not being prepared. He rushed to the store and came back with tampons.
I learned how to do our laundry, and how to check to see if something needed to be dry cleaned. When I was 12, I had the job of doing laundry once a week and folding clothes.
That's when Daddy started giving me an allowance. After I had some money saved, he took me to the bank and helped open an account that was for me to use. One day we had a long talk about why I should save money and not spend it as soon as I got it. A year or so later, he said because I was so responsible with my money, he was increasing my allowance.
He took me camping and taught me how to set up a tent, to find firewood and start a fire, to cook on a camp stove, and what kind of fuel to use in a camp stove and lantern.
He taught me how to cook at home. How to find recipes I liked. At 13 he gave me the assignment to cook every Sunday. I had to make a list of ingredients, look to see what we had, and make a shopping list.
When I turned 14, Daddy and I had the first of several talks we had about men and women and how babies are created. Over the next year we had more talks about that. He warned me of the danger of getting pregnant before I was ready, of being abandoned and left as a single mother.
I was embarrassed by the whole subject at first, but slowly came to love the time we spent and how I could ask him anything. I knew he was trying to protect me as well.
One day, when I was 15 and had gotten my learner's permit for driving, Daddy showed me how to buy gas and fill the tank, as well as how to change a tire. I say he showed me, but he had me do it.
A few years after Mom died, Daddy asked me whether I thought we should buy a hot tub. He showed me the cost, which was unimaginable to me. He assured me he had the money but wondered whether I wanted to have one for us to use. Of course, I did!
Daddy and I spent a lot of time in the hot tub, even in winter. It's where we talked a lot. That was one of my favorite things.
One day I said, "Daddy, why haven't you gotten married again?"
"Jazz (my name is Jasmin, but Daddy always calls me Jazz), I decided after your mother died you would be my world. I knew you needed all my attention, at least until you are out of high school, maybe longer."
"Thanks for all you have done for me! I think back to when I got my first period and how kind you were, and all the wonderful talks we've had. I can't imagine a more wonderful father! You even helped me buy my first bra! How weird was that for you?"
"After buying tampons and trying to explain to you how to use them, nothing else ever bothered me!"
We laughed a lot over that.
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It was right after my eighteenth birthday, and one morning I stood in the bathroom, naked. I stared at my body in the mirror, and saw a beautiful woman. Blond, shoulder length hair. Nice breasts, high and firm. A narrow waist leading to hips and a curvy butt. Nice legs. I put on my robe and went to find Daddy.
"Daddy, am I cute?"
"Of course you are. To me, you are a beautiful woman."
"Thanks Daddy, but I'm asking you to tell me not as my father, but as a man. Am I beautiful?"
"Why are you asking?"
"Boys are looking at me a lot. I want to know if that's why."
"Yes. You are beautiful and boys have noticed. How does that make you feel?"
"I'm not sure. I'm not interested in any of them."
"Jazz, don't ever settle for someone you don't love. Don't ever go out with someone you know will not be a good husband, even if marriage is years in the future."
"Thanks, Daddy. But you think I'm beautiful?"
"One of the most beautiful women I've ever known."
There was a reason I asked Daddy. I was interested in boys, but I wasn't attracted to any of them. I compared them to Daddy. They were immature, loud and selfish, but they were always looking at me.
I wanted someone like Daddy. Steady. Loving. Caring. Unselfish.
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High School graduation was nearing, and I decided to stay at home and attend the state university. I wanted to study Communications and become a broadcaster on television, and this school had a good program.
Daddy was there for my high school graduation, of course. Yelling and cheering for me as I marched across the stage.
Part of the reason I chose the state university was to be close to Daddy. I loved being with him. We had done everything together since Mom died.
Right after graduation, I bought a new swimsuit, a skimpy bikini that my best friend, April, said looked really sexy on me. I wore it in the hot tub with Daddy, and I noticed he was looking at me a lot more. When he stood up, I could see he had an erection. That made me wet.
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When my classes started at the university, I thought I should have more of a social life, so when a guy I kind of liked asked me out, I accepted. Daddy insisted that he come to the door so he could meet him.
The date was fun, so I agreed to go out again. That time, he started getting aggressive with me and wanted me to kiss him. I enjoyed that, but then he wanted to touch my breast and tried to reach up my skirt. I told him to take me home immediately, and he did, after apologizing.
The next night, I sat with Daddy in the hot tub and cried as I told him what happened. He listened to my whole story, and I could tell he was angry. Not at me, but heaven help that guy if he ever comes around again. I felt safe with his arm around me.
I went out with another guy, and he got pushy with me on our first date. I was disappointed and cried again.
"Daddy, I want someone like you. You're the perfect man for me, because you're kind and gentle and protect me. I love you."
In that moment, I realized I didn't just want someone
like
Daddy, I wanted
Daddy!
To me it all made sense. He was alone. I loved him and he loved me, although I knew I also loved him as a man, a man I desired. He probably couldn't allow himself to think of me that way, though.
As my 19th birthday approached, Daddy was often on my mind. He took me to dinner on my birthday. I imagined we were on a date, perhaps a special date that would end with sex. That's what I wanted.
How could I persuade him? After a lot of thought, I decided on three steps I would take.
The Tease
I started wearing a tiny bikini panty with a T-shirt that was a little short. I saw Daddy looking several times. Once, when I walked past him in the kitchen, a couple of minutes later he joined me at the table. I could see he had an erection.
I bought an even skimpier bikini to wear in the hot tub. I knew when I sat next to him, he saw a lot of skin.
I often came up to him and put my arms around him. As I stood there, I could feel his hard cock on my tummy. I found ways to push against him more firmly, or to rub my tummy against him. I knew I was driving him crazy.
