(sequel to In Camera)
I'm a proud father and, like the rest of the guys I play golf with, I brag about how well my daughter's doing. "Oh yes, she got into Harvard you know... She's reading economics... Her mother and I are so proud, although we sometimes wish she were closer to home... They grow up so fast, don't they?" You know the sort of thing.
What I'm really proud of -- what I can't tell the golf guys -- is that my little girl is likely to be the first prostitute in history to make the Fortune Five Hundred. Yes, I'm a sick puppy, but I am proud that Helen's earning up to a thousand dollars a night as an escort. Proud because, while every father thinks his daughter's beautiful, I know that a lot of wealthy men agree with me. Proud too because every father wants his children to be talented and Helen most definitely has a talent: She's the best sex I've ever had.
My name is Parry and I fuck my daughter.
A year ago, I was just another Dad with a kid at college and a wife at home. Things changed when Meg, my darling wife, started to lose interest in sex. That was when I started to rely more and more on Internet porn to get my kicks. I discovered the wonderful world of one-to-one web cam girls and was a happy masturbator for months until I strayed into one chat room and found my little girl flashing her crotch at me.
That was the day my world changed. It could have gone one of two ways. In the end, it went in the direction of perversity, depravity and incest. I became Helen's most regular regular without ever identifying myself. I paid her thousands of dollars to perform for me while I jerked off, thinking she'd never know.
On a visit home, she did find out because there were pics of her on my PC. Again, it could have gone either way. It went the way I'd fantasized about so many times -- Helen decided to seduce me. It wasn't exactly a seduction though. It's probably more accurate to say she blackmailed me into having sex with her. After that, it was easy to just carry on. It all got so intense that when she told me she'd started being an escort, I didn't even care that my daughter was whoring. Her word, not mine. Helen likes the coarse words.
Anyway, that was all last year. Now, I'm on my way to Boston to pick up Helen and all her stuff. It's a long drive but my darling daughter thought of that, so I have several CD compilations she made for me -- to pass the time.
"Hi Daddy. This is DJ Dirty Daughter cummin' at ya. And let me tell ya I'm lookin' forward to cummin' with ya in just a few hundred miles. So just to get you moving along that long lonely highway to Helen's heavenly haven, let's start with a classic driving song."
"My Pappy said 'Son, you're gonna drive me to drinkin'
If you don't stop drivin' that hot rod Lincoln.
..."
It was good driving music but I recalled that Helen had first heard Commander Cody in a film called the Invisible Circus in which a college girl ends up seducing an older man. Last time it'd been played in this car, Helen was beside me with her shorts pushed down, rubbing herself in an attempt to make me crash the car. When the song finished, I was hard with the recollection of that other journey and the taste of Helen's secretions on her fingers.
"Remember that one Daddy? I sure do. I think about your hot rod whenever I hear it.
Here's a track that will always be our song."
Papa's got a brand new bag. That had been my nickname in Helen's chat room. Yes, it's definitely our song.
The tracks passed, the miles passed and the innuendo got less and less subtle. When Hendrix and Dylan finished F.Y.I.T.A. all I could hear on the CD was a loud buzzing. It took a few seconds before I made the connection. The buzzing grew fainter and Helen's husky, bedroom voice whispered. "Recognise that sound, Daddy? You should do. You bought it for me. Better put the pedal to the metal if you're gonna get here before the batteries run out." The buzzing got louder again and there was a theatrical moan in the background, then the next track cut in.
"Driving all night, my hands wet on the wheel.
Something inside of me, drives my heel.
..."
And the miles rolled under my wheels as the music rolled out of the speakers, seasoned with increasingly provocative and explicit links from Helen. I had a boner three miles from home that was still testing Mr Levi Strauss' excellent stitching to the limit when I turned off the highway for the motel where I was to spend the first night.
It was a two day journey each way to Boston and I'd only been talked into making the trip because the alternative was for Helen to drive a U-haul trailer, which she'd never done and claimed to be scared to try. At least, that's how the story went at home. The unmentioned up side to fetching Helen was the two nights we'd get to spend in motels, fucking each other's brains out. Which, by a strange coincidence, was exactly what I was daydreaming about in the shower in my motel room when the phone rang.
"Hi Daddy, what took you so long?" She'd had to ring twice to get an answer.
"I was in the shower, thinking about you."
"Oh! Is it hard?"
"What do you think?"
"I think jerking off in the shower is what sad old men do and you should save it for tomorrow night. Especially as I've got a treat for you."
There was a giggle in the background.
"Who's giggling? What treat?"
"B."
B was Helen's roomie but also one of her lovers. Helen had told B about our relationship, much to my dismay, but the world hadn't ended so I'd come to assume B was cool about it.
"And the treat?"
"I've just told you, Daddy!" There was more giggling.
"Oh... You mean...?" It dawned on me what Helen was getting at.
"Yes Daddy. Tomorrow night you're gonna get to see all the girl on girl action you want and you'll get to fuck us both. Now isn't that a good reason to save it for tomorrow?"
"Sweetheart, are you sure about this?" B may have heard about Helen and I but confirming it by demonstration was a different matter.
"Of course I'm sure. Silly Daddy. I really really want to share someone I love with someone I love." Helen sounded sincere and, for a moment, quite sentimental.
"Well, if you put it like that, how can I refuse?"
"You can't refuse. You never can with me. Besides, you'll adore Honey B: she's gorgeous and very slutty."
"Like you?"
"Like me." Helen agreed. "But she's not a whore."
"Are you whoring tonight?" A year of hearing about it had desensitised me to the coarse way Helen described her work.
"Not tonight. We're having a girl's night in. Painting nails, shaving each others cunts..." Helen had taken to using the C word lately. It was all part of the "How degenerate can we get?" ethos.
