Mama was killed in an automobile accident when I was seventeen. Her death hit both daddy and me hard, but while I was able to deal with it pretty well, daddy was almost a basket case for about three months.
Mama had shown me how to cook, sew, do the laundry, and keep the house clean, and she and I frequently did these things together before her death. Now, I stepped in and did them all myself. Daddy would not have been able to do them. He's a great mechanic, and is talented in many other ways, but I don't think he could fix breakfast if it required anything more than pouring cereal into a bowl and adding sugar and milk. Anyway, when mama died, I began taking care of daddy and the house. At first, the house wasn't quite as well taken care of as it had been when mama was alive, but I soon learned the little tricks that every woman learns to save time and to get all of the work done quickly and well.
I made sure that daddy always had clean, well pressed clothes to wear, and that he ate well. I loved him, no – I love him. I wanted his life to be as happy and as comfortable as I could make it. I still do.
Although I was able to do all of the cooking and housework almost as well as mama had, I was unable to give daddy the love and companionship she had given him. I could see the loneliness in his eyes. Daddy tried to put up a brave front, but I knew deep inside that he was hurting, hurting badly. Over time, daddy began to come out of the deep funk he had been in, but there was still something holding him back, keeping him from being the cheerful, outgoing man he had been.
I got a clue about what was bothering daddy one day when I took some clean clothes into his bedroom to put them in the dresser and the closet. While I was hanging daddy's clean shirts on the bar, my head brushed a rolled magazine on the lower shelf above the hanger bar. My head almost dislodged it from where daddy had stuck it. It seemed strange that daddy had rolled it and put it on the closet shelf instead of putting it with his Popular Science and other magazines in the cabinet at the bottom of his nightstand.
I unrolled the magazine. Wow! It was a copy of Private, a slick porn magazine. The picture on the cover left nothing to the imagination. The blond girl in the picture was standing bent over a kitchen sink. She had one foot up on the top step of a kitchen stool. An older man was behind her. Both of them were naked, and at least half of the man's stiff cock was buried deep inside the girl's shaved pussy.
I took the magazine to my room and lay down on the bed to look at it. The story line of the text under, or next to the pictures didn't have enough plot to make good reading, but it wasn't supposed to be a piece of literature. The pictures were the important thing. Nevertheless, that little bit of text said that the people the story and pictures were about were father and daughter.
My parents were nudists and I was used to seeing both of them nude around the house, and went nude much of the time myself when only the three of us were in the house. I had also been to various nudist resorts both here in the states and in Europe with my parents, so I had never found a nude man's body particularly arousing.
Nevertheless, the pictures in that copy of Private soon had my skirt up and my right hand inside my panties. I think it was because they supposedly showed a man having sex with his own daughter. Because we had always been a nudist family, daddy and I continued going nude in one another's presence, even after mama's death. It was just the natural thing for us to do, and I didn't think anything about it. We even hugged one another while we were nude, and gave one another good night kisses while nude, but never did anything that could be considered sexual. We just did what other fathers and daughters do who are fully clothed when they do it.
A couple of times, over the last several months, when I kissed daddy good night, I had felt his cock twitch against my thigh, but it had never gotten erect, just a little fatter and a little firmer.
It kind of thrilled me to think that my daddy was starting to get a hard-on while kissing me, but neither of us did anything to further what each of us was feeling. We always broke our kiss and went to our own rooms to sleep. But, now, looking at these pictures: I felt that daddy had this magazine because it showed someone doing what he wanted to do. My daddy wanted to fuck me! More than that, as I looked at those pictures, I wanted it to happen. I wanted my daddy.
My boyfriend, Kevin, and I had started having intercourse the week I turned eighteen. We had petted heavily a lot before that, but Kevin is two years older than I am and he was afraid to fuck me while I was still 'jail bait,' as he put it. So – I wasn't a virgin any more. I had tasted the pleasures of sex.
Fucking Kevin was always fun, but something was still missing. With him, it was never anything more than physical. Don't get me wrong. I like Kevin. For a time, I even thought I loved him, but sex with him never had an emotional component to it. It was almost like I was using his hard cock as a substitute for my hand, and was using him to masturbate myself to orgasm.
As I looked at the pictures in the magazine, and read the trite text that accompanied them, my fingers danced over my clit and plunged into my sopping wet cunt. Now, I knew why sex with Kevin never really left me satisfied. I wanted my daddy. And, if this magazine meant what I thought it meant, daddy wanted me.
That evening, when daddy got home from the garage he owns, I was in the kitchen, nude as usual, and was preparing supper.
"Hi, Rose," daddy called out as he slammed the front door. It was raining, and in damp weather the door swells and sticks. It is hard to open and hard to close.
"Hi, daddy," I called out. "I'm here in the kitchen. Supper will be ready in about an hour. I'm just putting it in the oven. Why don't you go shower. I'll open a beer for you and put it next to your chair in the living room." "Thank you, darling."
I opened daddy's favorite beer, a half liter flip-top Grolsch, and poured it into a big ceramic stein that daddy had bought in Rudesheim, Germany the year we took a Rhine River trip. Then I went into the bathroom. Daddy was in the shower, but I could see him through the frosted glass of the shower door.
He hadn't heard me enter. The water was making too much noise. He was standing there with his back to the spraying water. His right hand was wrapped around his stiff cock and he was moving it rapidly back and forth along the shaft.
I sat on the toilet and put my right hand down between my open thighs. While daddy stroked his hard-on, I fingered my clit. I came when I saw daddy shudder, heard him moan, and saw a hint of his semen squirting out to splash on the wall of the shower stall.
I quickly got up and returned to the kitchen. I washed the pussy juice off my hand in the kitchen sink, and was making a salad when daddy came up behind me, put his arms around me, and gave me a hug.
His naked body against mine felt marvelous. After what we had done in the bathroom, although I'm sure daddy didn't know I had been there masturbating and watching him do the same, the touch of his cock between the cheeks of my ass made my nipples pop out and made my pussy begin to get wet.
I turned in daddy's arms and when I was facing him, kissed him. It was no little girl's daughter to father kiss. It was a horny woman's kiss. Daddy must still have been horny too. He didn't pull back to break the kiss, as I had expected him to, but returned the kiss with a passion that matched my own.
