Addictive
by Pan
Chapter 2
“Honey!” I said, alarmed, but a look of total bliss spread across Fiona’s face.
“Oh my god,” she sighed happily. “This. Is. The Best.”
I took a step backwards. Fatherhood constantly presents you with new challenges, but “your teenage daughter loving the taste of your cum” certainly wasn’t one that I’d been expecting.
“Uh…”
I was flummoxed, and so I just stood there, mouth gaping, as Fiona began looking for more of the mysterious gel she’d scooped into her mouth.
“What is it, a new toothpaste? God, Dad, it’s so good. You’ve got to try it.”
I already have, I thought to myself.
I mean, not as a habit or anything like that, but what man hasn’t tasted his own offering?
No offense to women (or I guess gay men) but I’ve never seen the appeal.
And I can tell you, based on the two blowjobs I got from Julie before we got married and the one I got on our honeymoon (the last blowjob I received, I’m sad to report)—the taste of my cum was definitely not something that would typically incur this kind of reaction.
Julie swallowed the first time, but she was obviously pretty reluctant to do so, and so the next two times I came in her mouth, she spat it into a tissue, wrinkling her cute little nose up as I did.
So what the hell why Fiona acting like she’d just found the elixir of life?
As I started pretending to help my daughter find more of the “incredible stuff”, I wondered if it really was a spilled bath gel or gum ointment or something like that. I mean, some of them taste pretty nice—again, not amazing enough to rave about (as my daughter continued to do as we searched) but surely that made more sense than her response being to my semen.
Right?
After she’d smelled or tasted everything in the medicine cabinet (against my advice, I should add), my daughter seemed to turn into some kind of bloodhound. She stood perfectly still, her nostrils flaring slightly.
“I can still smell it…” she said, and—no word a lie—it took less than a minute for her nose to lead her to my hands.
I watched, shocked, as my daughter’s small pink tongue poked out and dabbed against the palm of my hand.
“This is it!” she exclaimed, and before I could even jerk my hand away, her tongue flattened out and began licking my hand.
The sensation of my daughter’s tongue against my rough skin was a strange one (which, as I’m sure you can imagine, I’d never expected to experience) and I had to say her name three times before she snapped out of it, withdrew her tongue, and gave me my hand back.
“Oh wow,” she said, looking up at me in surprise. “Sorry Daddy.”
“That’s okay, hon,” I said cautiously. “But how about you do what you came in here to do, hey?”
“Yeah,” she agreed. “I totally forgot—I’m busting.”
I began to leave the small bathroom, but before I could get out the door, I felt her hand on my arm.
“Daddy,” she said as I turned to face my apparently-insane daughter. “What is that stuff?”
“It’s hand-cream,” I lied, not entirely sure how to respond.
“Oh,” she said, and before she could ask any follow-up questions, I left the bathroom and shut the door.
What the fuck had just happened?
At 3am, I finally resigned myself to the fact that I wasn’t getting any sleep that night. Making sure not to wake my sleeping wife (despite almost 19 years without sex, we still share a bed—thus the bathroom masturbation session) I went downstairs and poured myself a glass of milk.
“Okay,” I said out loud. “There’s a few different options.”
“Mmm?” my daughter replied, and I almost jumped out of my skin. I’d managed to avoid her for the rest of the night, locking myself in my den until I heard her go upstairs to her room, but I had somehow failed to notice her sitting at the kitchen table when I came down.
If she weren’t my daughter, I’d be forced to admit that Fiona is an extremely attractive young woman. Long brown hair, dark skin (her mother is darker than I am, and Fiona’s inherited her complexion) and blue eyes, which is apparently a recessive gene from my mother’s father, or however that works.
As she is my daughter, of course, I’ve tried very hard to never notice her long, slender legs, or her surprisingly large breasts (something that she certainly didn’t inherit from her mother).
No, as far as I’m concerned, she’s just my baby girl.
When she’s sitting at the table wearing nothing but a pair of panties and a thin white T-shirt, however, it can be pretty hard to avoid noticing how she’s grown.
“Something from work, honey,” I mumbled, and Fiona raised one eyebrow.
“Really, Daddy?” she asked, standing up and marching towards me.
I was reminded of a tiger stalking its prey. My daughter had that same terrifying, predatory look in her eyes.
“Uh-huh.”
“And this has nothing to do with your…what did you say it was that I found?” she asked innocently, fluttering her eyelids at me.
I was a fool to fall for it.
“Hand-wash,” I said.
In response, her eyes flared and she pointed one finger accusingly at me.
“No,” she growled, “you said hand-cream. And I asked mother; she said that in all the time she’s known you, you’ve never bought, owned, or shown any interest in hand-cream. And then when I went through every drawer in the bathroom and the bedroom, you know what I didn’t find?”
“The treasure of the Sierra Madre?” I joked, but my attempt at humor was ignored.
“Hand-cream, Daddy. I found no hand-cream, no hand-wash. Nothing that explains what that mystery goo was.”
She paused, and I gulped.
“But mark my words, Daddy, I’m going to find what it was. I already have some…”
Her eyes flicked down to my pants, and for the first time since I’d found her lurking in the kitchen, she looked briefly hesitant.
“…I already have some theories.”
“I’m sure you do, sweetie,” I said, trying my hardest to smile. I suspect the result was akin to someone trying to fit a whole packet of mints in their mouth at once—I’ve always been told I have a particularly toothy smile—and Fiona shot me a withering glance before heading off to bed.
Jesus Christ. When had my daughter become so…determined?
And what the hell was I going to do?