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“Slide your foot out,” he said. “No, the other one. Here.” His face hovered into view as he knelt on the mattress. “I’ll do it. Just relax.”
His hand circled my ankle. My breath stuttered. Carefully, he drew my right leg out straight, then the left. My skin had never felt so sensitive, so conscious of its placement and relation to everything else. He positioned me, guiding my limbs to where he wanted them to go. I closed my eyes, letting his adjustments lull me into a state of suspended detachment. I was a puppet, a marionette with nerve endings for strings, and my father conducted the show.
He brushed my nipple in the process of draping my arm across my chest. I gasped at the jolt of pleasure that echoed in my hips. He pressed a hand to my stomach.
“You okay?”
I nodded yes, though I was far from okay. I was on fire, in spite of the gooseflesh that pricked across my skin as if I were cold. I was a tangle of string, threads of embarrassment and arousal, and a yearning to be made and unmade by this man, this maker of beautiful things.
He turned his attention to the fabric around my shoulders, and I used the distraction to restore my mask of calm. The skin on my stomach was still warm from where his hand had been. I inhaled deeply, filling my head with the scent of chalk and paper, paints and thinner—comforting smells, classroom smells.
Without warning, he grasped my ankles, bent my knees, and spread my legs.
Last night’s fantasies that felt too much like memories flashed across my mind, an image of my father’s hands gliding down to stroke my clit. A whimper caught in my throat as his very real fingers parted my labia, exposing me to the air. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. I was unmasked.
“Beautiful.” He exhaled the word, his gaze centered between my thighs.
Heat rushed to my face. He guided my arm by the wrist, resting my palm over my mound, then left to gather his sketchbook and pencils. He dragged a chair closer to the futon and sat down.
“I know this is awkward, but I want you to touch yourself just like you would if you were alone. You can close your eyes if it helps you focus.”
I didn’t know if it would help, but I knew there was no way I could touch myself and look at him without having a nervous breakdown. My eyelids fluttered shut. I listened to the pounding of my heart, felt the throbbing of my pulse in my throat.
He didn’t rush me. He didn’t sigh or tap his feet. Still, I could feel the minutes stretching like over-tuned guitar strings. When they snapped, would he send me out? Hand me my clothes like a pink slip and say, Nice try, kid?
The first time I masturbated for my ex over webcam, I almost couldn’t come. I was afraid of making weird faces or funny sounds. When I realized how quickly all of that faded into the background as soon as I began to touch myself, I was able to relax and let go. My arousal was sexy. My staccato moans and clenched teeth, the light from the screen reflecting off my moistened fingers.
I began to move in small, imperceptible circles over my clit. Racking my brain for a fantasy, I reached for handsome celebrities, cute boys from school, chance encounters with sexy, mysterious strangers.
Knowing my father was there and that he was watching made it hard to concentrate on anything else. It wasn’t until I pictured him tossing down the sketchbook and coming to kneel on the bed that my body began to respond. I imagine him climbing over me, bending to take my nipple into his mouth. I saw him slide his tongue down to my circling fingers, where I spread my lips and let him kiss my clit, just like he’d kissed my mouth.
Groping for my breast, I rolled my nipple between my thumb and forefinger, then dipped the first two fingers of my other hand low to dampen them. I was sopping, embarrassingly wet. Somehow the knowledge that my father had a front-row seat to my shame only made it hotter. I pretended my slick fingers were his tongue, that the hand around my breast was attached to his arm.
My legs trembled. My lips parted. I moaned.
“Stop,” he rasped, his voice like honeycomb dipped in gravel.
My eyelids floated open and my fingers stilled. He squeezed the arms of the chair, knuckles glowing white, his gaze scalding.
The look on his face was not unlike the one he’d worn last night, lustful and penetrating. I could still picture him with his cock in his hand. The thought sent a rush of molten pleasure through my veins.
“Stay just like that.” He flipped to a fresh page in his sketchbook and began drawing.
I lay still, my heart thumping in my clitoris as it pulsed against my two fingers.
Nothing about this was normal. What we were doing, how it made me feel. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was finally where I belonged. Where I should’ve been all this time.
He drew me for forty minutes before he laid his pencil down, shaking and flexing his hand. “Do you need a break?”
My mouth felt dry and my limbs prickled from lying in the same position for so long. “Maybe a short one.”
“We’ll take ten,” he said, and I wondered if I would have to touch myself again when we resumed, not that it would take much to get me going. I was still humming like an engine left to idle, easily revved to life.
My father uncrossed his legs, resting both feet on the ground. His sketchbook slid to the side. I sat up to stretch and caught sight of what looked like the ridge of an erection braced against his jeans.
I sucked in a quick breath and my inner muscles tightened. How long had he been like that? A few minutes? Since he spread my legs? Since I started touching myself? I flicked my gaze away. When I looked up at his face, he was eyeing me as though he knew what I had seen and wasn’t sure how he felt about it.
He stood, and the way he positioned his sketchbook over his lap did not escape me. “That’s enough for today.”
