Kittens Fathers Story Ch 01

There is no underage sex in this story, and an underage girl is not naked or described, nor any speculations about her figure or sexual thoughts about her - until she is eighteen.

She is nineteen at the actual time of the story.

This chapter is all hindsight and anticipation: a lot of thoughts that a father shouldn't have, but ones he has to have after what he and Kitten had done in Florence, told in the chapters of "Kitten & Father in Florence;" anticipation of what they are looking forward to doing in Venice.

* * *

"Why did I have to wait for my Kitten to grow up to know how good it could be?"

I had begun to ask myself that during the days and nights we had been together in Florence. After a week, I finally said it, after a wonderful, long spooning fuck one morning, just the way she had said she wanted us to, as we were going to bed the night before. Yes, we used that word, maybe not the first couple of days. I am sure I had never used it with my wife, but we never talked about what we were doing. We should have; it was so delightful with Kitten. We could joke and talk about what we were doing or wanted to do. After she once asked: "What do we want to do now?" but then smirked, that became a byline.

I felt twenty years younger with her. Oh, we also talked about the father-daughter relationship, but it never really gave us a problem. What we were doing was just too good and fun. Feeling twenty years younger? I was a little proud of myself, that I could do as much as she wanted. She assumed that I could have two orgasms in succession, in her mouth and then in her pussy - and I could! Once I had two in her pussy without stopping. It took a while, but she didn't want me to stop. I had never done that before, certainly not with her mother.

Oh, her pussy: we used that word too, but that's how it all started. Maybe, most probably, it all wouldn't have happened, if we hadn't named her Catherine, and I hadn't immediately called her Kitten as a baby. Her mother called her Cathy, but didn't mind my nickname for her - until she was eleven or twelve. One day, she told me that she didn't think Kitten was an appropriate nickname for a young girl. Of course, I wondered why she suddenly didn't like it. Until then, I had never made the connection kitten-pussy, maybe because I so seldom had the opportunity to think about pussies, and certainly, definitely not about Kitten's.

I did then, however, not about Kitten's, just recognizing that my wife must have made the connection, but never said the word, but why did she only complained after a dozen years? Had she told Kitten about what girls that age were going to have to know about themselves? Had Kitten asked her something along that line? I only found out one day in Florence. Kitten had asked her. So I tried to avoid calling her Kitten when her mother was around, but when I called her Cathy, she made a face like she did, when her mother called her Catherine, usually to admonish her about something. We both liked Kitten better.

I watched her grow up. When my wife and I separated and then divorced, not for anything that had to do with Kitten, we sent her to a girls' prep school, and she would visit me for a couple of days during Christmas and Easter vacations and at the beginning and end of the summer. That was nice.

When she was sixteen and visited me at the beginning of the summer, she complained that her mother wouldn't let her buy a bikini. Indulgent father, I did. I heard about that from my ex-wife. Kitten came back from shopping with pleased smile and asked if I wanted to see it. I shrugged, expecting her to pull it out of the bag, but she went to her room and returned wearing it. It was a fairly modest bikini, but she looked slightly embarrassed when she glanced up at me, then looking down at herself. I told her it looked very nice. She blushed with an abashed smile and thanked me for letting her have it.

When she turned to return to her room, it occurred to me why her mother hadn't wanted her to have a bikini yet. Kitten did sometimes seem a little younger than she looked in her new bikini.

Too late, she had it. The next day her mother called and gave me a good piece of her mind. She spoke of Catherine - not Cathy - and I imagined that she had heard a lecture with several uses of her full name. When she returned at the end of the summer, however, she grinned and pulled up her polo shirt to show me her tanned midriff and thanked me again for the bikini. Then she was back in school, her next to last year there.

* * *

Fall of her senior year in school, her mother said that she thought Cathy shouldn't go to college immediately and suggested that she spend a year in Europe to improve her French. For whatever reason my ex-wife thought Kitten wasn't ready for college yet, a year in Europe sounded pretty liberal - Kitten doing what! Then she asked if I would pay for a year in Swiss finishing school, just girls, chaperoned. That sounded all right. Money wasn't a problem, I even offered to let her take Kitten to Europe before the school started. She liked that, of course, and told me that I could tell Cathy, when she visited me before Christmas.

That was a fine idea; I could make it a present for her eighteenth birthday in November and for Christmas. Her mother could plan the trip. She had already found the school. I looked forward to telling Kitten, wondering the best way to surprise her, not the moment I picked her up at the train station, nor the first evening. I decided to get up early the first morning and make a better breakfast. It was to be her birthday present, a festive breakfast table, like when she had been a kid. Was I just going to tell her? Not festive enough; I wrote in my best handwriting and large enough so that she immediately read it, and put the page in an envelope addressed: "Kitten for her Eighteenth Birthday and Christmas." The day before she arrived, I even bought a half bottle of champagne. Of course, she wasn't supposed to drink yet, but if she was going to Europe, she would be able to, so better start at home. I had wine in my place. In case we wanted to have some in the evenings; she could "train" a little more.

Pleased with my preparations, I picked her up and took her to dinner, as always. Maybe she expected a birthday present immediately, but she didn't say anything, and I didn't congratulate her. When we said good night, I did say that I had a surprise for her. She grinned with a nod; I hadn't forgotten her birthday.

Early the next morning, I got up. When I was about to use the bathroom, I remembered not to wake her and peed in the kitchen sink. I always wore pajamas when she was there and didn't change. She had seen me like that, and I, her, also in pajamas. I silently set the table and placed the envelope at her place, remembering glasses for the champagne. I closed the kitchen door and made coffee and poached eggs: her favorite, poached eggs on toast. I had gone to the farmers' market to be sure they were very fresh, so that the whites didn't spread too much. The coffee was on the table, also the champagne. Pleased with the way the eggs had turned out, I put them on the buttered toast and called: "Happy Birthday! Hurry, or your poached eggs will be cold."

As I put the plates on the table, I added: "Don't bother to get dressed; I haven't either."

A few moments later, her door opened, and she smiled at me, then glanced at the table with hum and saw my envelope. She gave me another smile and asked: Can I already?"

I nodded, returning her smile. She picked it up and read my note. It took a moment for her to digest what I had written. Then she looked at me with wide eyes and asked: Really?!"

I nodded again, and suddenly she had her arms around my neck, embracing me. She had never embraced me like that, her whole body in contact with mine, her firm breasts pressed to my chest!

"Oh Daddy!" she said, looking up at me as though she wanted to kiss me. My arms went around her. If she wanted to embrace me like that, it would have been rude not to return her embrace. That rationale only occurred to me after my arms already were, and it felt like she was pressing her hips even a little more firmly against me. Of course, we didn't kiss, but she wanted us to stay like that for a second or two longer than I expected. Then her arms relaxed, and she said:

"Oh Daddy! Thank you! Oooh, I've got to go."

I released her, and she hurried to the bathroom, almost slamming the door shut. I recovered from the so unexpected pleasure of feeling a young woman's body on mine, just two layers of soft cloth between them. And her firm breasts! Stop thinking about them, they're your daughter's, I admonished myself, then wondering if she had embraced a boy that way - and kissed him? She returned with an apologetic smile, and said:

"Thank you again. Your egg will still be good. That was just too exciting."

"I wanted it to be, well, maybe not like that," I replied, and we sat down.

She nodded with a smile and attacked her poached egg, letting the yolk run - just like I had hoped it would. We both had a couple of bites, exchanging smiles, then she noticed the champagne bottle and looked at me questioningly.

"If you're going to Europe. It's your birthday - was - and over there you can drink; so better to have some experience before you go. Besides, I want to celebrate with you."

She smiled, my Kitten, and I opened the bottle, pleased that the cork didn't fly out of my hand. She chuckled as I poured, watching the bubbles fill the glasses before they were half full. I poured again and then raised my glass, toasting her, wishing her all the best as a eighteen year-old and more for her year in Switzerland. That was the first time I saw her nipples. It looked like they were both pointing at me - through her pajama top. She wrinkled her nose and wipe her other forearm over them, as we drank. I thought about telling her that men wouldn't mind seeing that happen, but, of course, I didn't. I tried not to look to see if they did again, while we ate our breakfast and shared the last of the champagne.

I almost always took her to lunch or dinner for the warm meal of the day. The next day, it was for lunch, with just a light supper of canned soup and sandwiches. When I suggested we have wine with it, she hummed with a nod. I asked if my Kitten was purring. She grinned with another nod and purred. We only sipped during our meal and then took our glasses and the bottle to the coffee table and watched TV, sitting on the sofa.

No, I didn't put my arm around her, but I wanted to. But when she had to go to the bathroom and returned - we had almost emptied the bottle - before she sat down, she snorted softly and said:

"I almost wanted to sit on your lap, like when I was small."

I smiled and patted the sofa, replying:

"Better you don't, but maybe that's why you should experiment with wine, if that's what it makes you want to do."

She nodded with wry smile and plumped down next to me, a little closer than before. I asked:

"Ever sit on anyone's?"

"Hmmm, just yours, not yet."

"He won't suggest that you don't."

"Mom said something like that."

"Listen to her," I replied, being the proper father, not that I thought my ex-wife's advice would all be good.

"Guess I'll have to in Europe."

"Sit on someone's lap?"

"Oh, Daddy! Have to drink."

"But don't let her tell you you can't drink. I don't want you to get drunk the first time with someone you don't know, or at a party."

"How girls get in trouble, Mom said," she replied with an understanding nod.

"Very, especially one who has less experience than the others."

She nodded again, then smirked and said:

"So better to try with you?"

I wasn't sure about that, but she was right.

"Right now?" I asked, adding: "You could have a hangover."

"Maybe another reason to find out."

We finished the little in our glasses and I got up and found another bottle of wine, the one with the least alcohol. When I had opened it and returned, she smiled, then said:

"And if it makes me want to sit on your lap?"

"It had better not. But if it does, I won't let you."

She scowled, but smiled and watched me pour. I let her drink as much as she wanted, just sipping, a little afraid that if she really wanted to sit on my lap, I might let her. She didn't, and in the morning, she just had a headache. I told her how a real hangover could be.

That evening, her last one, we went to a better restaurant. When the waiter offered me the wine list, I ordered a bottle and he served us both. It was a very pleasant meal, would have been with her, without the wine. That night in bed, I thought about her and our days together, not forgetting her embracing me and the glimpse of her nipples.

The next morning, I took her to station, wishing her Merry Christmas with greetings to her mother. There on the platform, she embraced me again like she had before, just with more clothes and our coats between us, but they didn't keep me from feeling that she was pressing her hips against mine.

With her gone, I'm afraid I let my fantasies run away with me. Of course, she was my daughter, but she was old enough to do anything she wanted - except drink alcohol - and I wasn't going to do anything with her. I really hadn't thought about kitten-pussy for years, but now I did, had to, recalling how she had pressed her hips to mine, and then suddenly had to go to the bathroom. A girl shouldn't do that with her father, especially when they both only had pajamas on.

Yes, I fantasized about her, any, every way a man could. Since I knew that I never would with her, I could just dream about, couldn't I? I envisioned her naked, firm breasts, different ideas about how her nipples could be, and then down below. They worked, my fantasies, but I had to figure out how it could happen, the start of each fantasy.

The easiest solution was that she just asked me to, maybe sitting on my lap, but that was too simple; entirely unrealistic. But maybe she would ask me for help, admitting that she had a boyfriend and wanted to with him. I didn't like the part about her having a boyfriend, but if she was so open as to ask for my advice, maybe she would let me show her. That was better, it always worked, but still too far fetched. Could I venture to ask her something, broach the subject, when she visited after Easter? I played through various alternatives of that. Of course, they all worked in my fantasies, but I knew that it wasn't going to happen; I would never find a way to ask her anything about sex.

When she then visited me after Easter, luckily, even when we had shared a bottle of wine, that didn't happen, especially the evening when we each drank three bottles of beer, then chuckling and smirking about having to hurry to use the toilet. But I did envision her sitting there and doing what her pussy had to. How much hair did she have there, a big patch, a thick or thin one?

When I did see it in Florence, it was just like I wanted it to be. I probably would have liked it any way it was.

Her mother and I both went to her prep school graduation and were on quite good terms, since I had offered her the trip to Europe with Kitten. At the graduation, I did get a couple of scowling glances, when I used my nickname, since I had been calling her Kitten for years with her mother never around. With her there, Kitten and I didn't hug the way we had before Christmas. Then she was gone, to her mother's place and then to Europe.

I was surprised that I got a few long letters from her during their travel. I couldn't write back until she was in the school, and we developed a delightful correspondence. I heard about Marlie, Marie-Louise, and her Christmas in Paris, but nothing about how it really was, as I later discovered.

I had sort of forgotten about pussy-kitten, even though I had been thinking about Kitten's pussy, and still did, but not when I was writing to her, which really surprises me now. And I didn't think about it, when we were making plans to spend Easter Week in Florence. I even believe that I didn't think about it, when she suggested we share the room in the hotel. I couldn't know that Marlie had told her the French word for pussy, "chatte," that has both the meanings pussy has, that Kitten had then told Marlie about my pet name for her, and that they decided to call their pussy and chatte "kittens" in their intimate relationship, which I certainly could never have anticipated.

Did she think about all that, when she writing letters to me? Obviously, she was avoiding telling me a major part of her life in the school and her experiences in Paris. Did she think about her "kitten" when she was signing her letters to me? She certainly was that day in Florence, when she asked me if I had thought about the connection kitten-pussy. And her letters after that have been much more interesting, since I now know all about Marlie and her brother.

Oh, and the little cucumbers! She mentioned them in her first letter after Florence. Marlie was delighted. I imagined that they wore them out. After a few days, little cucumbers get soft and floppy, like a cock after an orgasm. Of course, the cucumbers - poor things - wouldn't have had one, but after they had been in a girl's tight pussy, that did have one, they wouldn't need to recover. How many times could they have used them? Lots, since the girls could also use them alone in their rooms. Did they get any more? She didn't go into detail about what they did with them, but I had my ideas.

So, blame me for having found that nickname for my daughter, or blame Marlie for helping her link the three words together. Or maybe I should thank Marlie. So there we were, Kitten and I sharing a hotel room. Was it the second or third night we ended up in bed together. Yes, I should thank Marlie. As I told Kitten that morning a few days later:

"Why did I have to wait for my Kitten to grow up to know how good it could be?"

And all my thoughts about having wanted it to be good for her, fantasizing that I could help her?

It had been the other way, and better than any of my fantasies.

And where am I now? On another plane to Geneva to pick up Kitten after her year in the school, and we're going to spend another week together the same way, this time in Venice. Not just "the same way," Marlie is coming with us! Yeah, I hear the pun, she really is, that way too. Kitten had told her everything about our week in Florence.

After Kitten suggested that it would be nice for us to return Marlie's parents' hospitality, we agreed that I should write her parents, inviting her, also in the name of my ex-wife. Neither of the girls was sure if her parents knew we were divorced, but even then, a couple could get together for one week to do something nice for their daughter and her best girlfriend. Her parents agreed, replying that it was very nice of us to include Marlie. Of course, Kitten's mother is not joining us.

Why Venice? Well, because it's Venice, and the girls haven't been there, but also because we were their on our honeymoon, staying in a nice old hotel on the Lido, not the grand hotel by the beach. The girls aren't going to hear about how I know the hotel, but I know that adjacent rooms have doors between them, a door on each side with only a handle on the side of the door to each room. Both parties have to open the door on their side to allow access between the rooms. I have reserved two adjacent rooms, one with double bed for me - and wife, who had to miss the trip - the other room with twin beds for the girls. I've only written Kitten that we will have two adjacent rooms. The hotel might not be as nice as it was twenty years ago, but another week with Kitten - without Marlie - will be better than our honeymoon. But Marlie is coming with us!