Ben looked down at his erection and wondered how it was possible he hadn't buried it too, at least figuratively. He sighed and forced himself to swing his legs over the side of his bed and sit up. Since the funeral, there seemed to be...a lot more gravity. Sucking his body, mind and spirit downward.
But, this morning, not his penis. That was progress. The long red rod of tumescent flesh stood bravely, proud and defiant. Standing against the phenomenal forces of desperation that crushed down upon him. For Ben, these days, any of the D words fit: depressed, despondent, dejected, dispirited, disconsolate. Downcast. Cast down.
Suddenly, as he crossed the living room on his way to the kitchen, he stopped, or rather, his body stopped, right on THAT spot, where she and he first... In a wave of sensations so powerful it literally floored him, Ben felt, again, the silky smoothness of her skin, the soft, insistent touch of her fingers, the urgent caress of her lips, the wet, tingling probe of her tongue, and, and, and, he stopped to catch himself as his legs folded beneath him, the tender, soft, rose petals of flesh beneath that red patch of hair and the wet, warm, willing and wonderful embrace of her...
He considered masturbating, but that would just dredge the memories up further, and they were still so fresh he could feel them physically. Why torture himself?
Most excruciating of all, the pure anguish and terrible agony of it: she was his daughter.
Elle's mother died at childbirth and Ben raised his daughter as best he could. She was a fine, lively, beautiful and intelligent child. Highly intelligent. IQ measured in the mid 150s. And sometime around her fourteenth birthday she developed into the most stunningly graceful, elegant, angelic, charming, gorgeous, spirited young woman he'd ever laid eyes upon.
She lived to be 18. And a half.
The pathology of the disorder that took her was still confusing to him and he was not an ignorant man. Since the disorder was first discovered, since they'd first learned the prognosis was a death sentence, they'd been to countless doctors and specialists and really, none of them had a clear answer.
It was the psychologist he consulted during that time, for himself, that had the best advice: help her to live a full and fulfilling life during the time she had left.
But it was the last specialist they saw who changed his life, changed his outlook on life, changed his very sense of who was Ben O'Hara. And, the man was a fucking quack.
He remembered the consultation. It was the week after she turned 18. They were desperate for some answer, for some way of treating her, some hope.
"Orgasms," the man said, as confident and matter of fact as if he was prescribing kale smoothies. "At least once a day," the pompous, ridiculous man in his pretentious white lab coat continued. "The body's response to sexual release flushes toxins and pathogens from the system better than any form of medicine or any medical procedure ever could."
"Orgasms," Ben had repeated, incredulous, questioning not only the advice, but the doctor's sanity - and wondering if the fat, pale lump of a man sitting opposite him whacked off daily there behind his desk. The way the man was eyeing Elle he didn't doubt it.
She was having a hard time holding in her laughter. Finally, Ben broke out in a laugh himself, and the two of them exited the office laughing themselves to tears. Ironically, their laughter became the best thing that quack could ever have done for them.
For the rest of the day, all they had to do was look at each other, mouth an O and they'd break out in hilarious convulsions.
But the next morning, Elle sat down at breakfast and she told Ben that she wanted to try it.
"What?" Ben was taken aback.
"I want to try... 'orgasms'" she said, stating it in that flat, clinical way the doctor had used.
It was then that Ben noticed a bit of her long rusty red hair was fluffed up in the back and he knew, somehow knew. She'd already begun the treatment.
"Well," Ben said as he took a sip of coffee, "it can't hurt, I guess."
"Not a bit," Elle quipped, with a faint smile. "But I need some...marital aids."
And so she had retired to the computer to order a slew of sexual devices, which Ben paid for on his PayPal account. She'd insisted on showing him what she wanted and from whom. He didn't really want to know, but politely nodded and mm hm-ed as she showed him the things she'd ordered. The fact was, he was starting to have a reaction he didn't like.
In the aftermath of that comical consultation with the quack, his daughter, his angel, his ward and responsibility, had become overtly sexualized. What made this so very difficult for Ben was that Elle was, frankly, incredibly sexy. Her breasts were large, full, round and prominent. Her neck was long and tapered. Her lips were expressive, shapely and red. Her ass was the perfect bulbous, curved counterbalance to her breasts. Her legs were...breathtaking. She had a mane of unruly, fiery red hair. She carried herself with a feminine poise and sensuous grace that lately seemed to evoke reactions in Ben that were disconcerting.
But it was her smell that threatened to wipe out any resistance, any hope of decorum he could fight to maintain. She had a natural musky perfume that turned his brain into a mush of misplaced lust and longing. He missed his wife and had done very badly for himself, sexually, in the years since she'd passed.
So, the toys arrived and Elle had opened them right there in the living room. She was home during the day because Ben had taken her out of school for various reasons. One, Elle was smarter than her teachers. Two, high school was a wasteland of useless knowledge, crushing peer pressure and a terrible frittering away of the most vibrant years of a child's life. Three, Elle could take a few classes per week at the local junior college and actually learn far more important, compelling things about real life.
Her being home had made the two of them even closer. His work as a systems analyst gave him plenty of time at home too. Which was why she had no problem opening and showing off her new sex aids to him.
Ben had a problem, though. He couldn't help but look at that sleek, bulbed, glass dildo, that big, mechanical looking vibrator, and the oils and creams, and wonder what they might look like at work on his angel's perfect teen body.
That night was torturous in the extreme. His cock was at full mast no matter how he berated himself, his brain burned with images of what was happening behind her closed bedroom door. His ears strained to hear the slightest groan, moan or cry out signaling the onset of 'sexual release.'
The irony of it all was that the next morning Elle looked like a new woman. She looked healthier, had a distinctive glow about her, was lively, relaxed and funny.
Ben couldn't help but think that she looked fresher, more sensuous, sexier, more alive, than ever.
And so it went for the next two weeks. Ben would go to bed and fight off images and sensations of his daughter performing self administered orgasm therapy. And she would appear at breakfast with a slightly rumpled, freshly fucked look about her.
Sometime around the middle of that week she broached 'The Subject.' And Ben would never be the same after.