When I got home, I made plans to go to Houston and visit my dad. He was glad to see me and started right in with his "Aryan Princess" comments, etc.
When we met at the airport, my mother wasn't there because she was staying with some relatives in Washington . As I came down to the baggage area, Daddy ran up and held me in his arms and whispered, "Welcome home, Princess."
We went out to dinner and Daddy's eyes never left me all evening. Several times, he reached over and held my hand as if we were something more than just father and daughter. He told me repeatedly how beautiful I looked, never once asking about Andy.
When our black waiter was late with our bill, my father made one of his usual remarks about, "those people!" My parents were fairly well-to-do and had always had a superior attitude toward others. My father had this attitude much more with blacks than my mother did, however. As a child, I remember picking some of this up from them. I laughed to myself: my recent past was certainly erasing any feelings of superiority I may have had regarding blacks—or at least, black men--I thought!
When we got home, it was late and I went up to my bedroom and began to undress. My door was left only half closed, and I noticed that Daddy, in his room down the hallway, could watch me in his mirror via mine. It was almost a view by proxy of these two bedroom mirrors.
This brought back so many childhood memories of my undressing while Daddy would often watch me from the view afforded by his bedroom-mirror.
From the age of twelve, Daddy would watch as I combed my long blonde hair and casually undressed myself for a bath or for bed.
I remember it strangely exciting to find myself so subtly and secretly admired by the most powerful man in my young life.
Of course, all this was in the back , the very deepest recesses, of my young mind. But still, if I didn't know, I sensed that this was some secret, erotic dance we would perform, so many nights ago, as I blossomed into womanhood.
Even at twelve and thirteen, I would often find my mouth dry and my hands trembling as I began unbuttoning my blouse, seeing my 'almost hidden' admirer watching me fixedly from his mirror's view.
Some nights as I disrobed, I would see his light go out, and I would have no idea what took place as he watched me in the dark of his bedroom.
Sometimes I would hear Daddy's bed creaking gently, but rhythmically, as I slowly disrobed for him. And I often found, as I'd remove my little panties, a dampness in the crotch that I didn't understand.
The next morning, Daddy and I would continue as father and daughter, as if nothing had happened. And in my mind, nothing did...in that I never understood the meanings of our strange ceremony...and never knew that these things didn't happen in other houses.
After all, we were wealthy, very upper middle class, and considered respectable church-goers to any one who knew us.
Since I was very young, Daddy would often come in and sit me on his lap to say good night. As I entered my teenage years, around 14 or so, Daddy's 'good-nights' to me became longer. In fact, our goodnights became so much longer and closer that we would sometimes be together for an hour or more.
Daddy would hold me on his lap and caress the smooth skin of my thigh as he whispered wonderful and loving endearments to me. I was his "Aryan Princess," the "most beautiful girl in Texas," and many other things that made me lightheaded resting in his strong arms.
He would kiss my forehead as he whispered these loving phrases, and soon, his kisses would trail down the slope of my nose, to my cheeks and, ultimately, to my lips. Soft and light at first, but finally building to deep kisses where I could feel the slight trace of his tongue along my lips--sometimes even touching the tip of my tongue.
I was never sure what to do or how to react, so I would close my eyes pretending to be asleep or in some sort of swoon. It was an understanding we both had, that I was not to be fully aware of all this. Or of the soft caresses of Daddy's hands...along my thighs...and under my night shirt, teasing the nipples of my young—but already full—breasts.
Often I'd find, after he'd lifted me into bed, pulled up my blankets and left my room, that my panties had become moist again. Sometimes more than just a moist. Sometimes my exploring fingers found them soaking wet.
My strong sexual drive was already growing rapidly in my early teens, coaxed on by the tender ministrations of my father's hands, and mouth, and lips.
During day hours, as I became sixteen and seventeen, I'd often find Daddy admiring me in the outfits I chose. He loved my style, my look. Tall, blonde, he called it, "Stately". I think that's where all the "Aryan Princess" stuff came from, as well as our Germanic and Scandinavian heritage (our heritage went way back—we were very Americanized over many generations).
I always loved the admiring way he would look me over in my short skirts, or tight jeans and tank tops. It made me feel very beautiful...and very sexy. Of course, I knew better than to ever mention this to anyone. What I felt from my father's looks and glances was something I knew no daughter should feel--from or about her father.
But inside I knew that I did have these feelings. And I liked them.
And so I found myself undressing again, in the same bedroom I grew up in, at the age of 30, and from across the hallway Daddy and I fell into our old custom.
As I combed my hair before my mirror, I wondered what Daddy would think if he knew that his 'Aryan Princess' was now carrying the seed of a 65 year old, black janitor's baby in her belly. I laughed to myself...what if he were to have seen me the other day chasing this old man and submitting to him in a back room at my workplace. Or down on my knees servicing him in a hallway. His 'Aryan Princess' insanely in love with an old janitor's, big, coal-black dick.
I thought it would surely kill him. Poor Daddy...he worshipped me. And yet it was he who probably awakened the early seeds of lust I had for older, forbidden men.
As I continued to comb my hair I felt a love, a lust, and yet...an anger too...at this man who couldn't keep his hands off me since I was just a little, blonde, twelve year old pixie.
That terrible side of a woman came out in me, and I wanted to tease him unmercifully. Make him want me so badly...and then punish him somehow.
I looked into the mirrors and could see him laying on his bed, pretending to read the paper, but really peering over it, into the mirror, at me.
My fingers began to tremble as I placed my brush down, reached up, and began unbuttoning my blouse.
As I peeled off my blouse, my full breasts, bulging slightly from my brassiere, came fully into view. I played with my hair a little more, putting it up in a pony tail, so as to tease Daddy with the delay. I could see him staring intently at me through the mirrors, his paper lying on his chest, no longer being able to even pretend he was involved with anything...other than watching me.
After fussing with my hair for a few minutes longer, I reached back and undid my bra...but didn't remove it. I let it just sit loosely on my breasts as I pretended to be putting away my jewelry.
