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He was watching porn.
Only, he wasn’t. Porn might’ve been streaming on the TV, but his eyes were closed.
My body tensed with unwelcome fascination.
He sat with his back to the headboard, wearing nothing but a pair of dark-blue boxer briefs, his long legs stretched out across the king-sized bed. I hadn’t realized how well-muscled his chest was, or that he’d been hiding a flat stomach under all those paint-stained tees.
I inched forward, bringing my eye closer to the cracked door. It felt wrong to spy on him like this, but I couldn’t help myself. I’d spent the past six years wondering about his life without me, what he did with his free time, where he slept. Part of me wanted to climb into his lap like old times, to trace the slight bump on his nose and stroke the high points of his cheeks—angles I’d inherited. I wanted to learn everything I could about the man who had made me. Then again, maybe I just wanted to learn more about myself.
His chest rose and fell. For a second, I thought he might be sleeping, until his hand slid onto his lap. He cupped himself through his boxers. And then I saw it, pushing at the thin fabric.
He was hard.
I gasped. Eyes closed tight, he continued to rub himself. My inner muscles clenched along with my stomach, my body running hot and cold, curiosity versus confusion. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to gorge myself or throw up.
I licked my chapped lips, incapable of tearing my gaze away from his bulge. This was sick. I was sick. Still, I needed to know what was hiding in there.
My first, last, and only relationship had existed entirely online, and although I had never touched a cock or seen one in the flesh, I knew firsthand how watching someone masturbate could be sexy under the right circumstances. I’d just never imagined those circumstances would involve me spying on my father. I wanted to race back to my room almost as much as I wanted to stay and see more.
Almost, but not enough.
He pulled the waistband of his boxers down and over his cock. I had always looked forward to this part with my ex, what I thought of as the reveal. But his erection was an entirely different beast. The damn thing was almost as thick as my wrist. It couldn’t possibly fit inside a person.
Sweat trickled down from my hairline as I worked to control my breathing. He wrapped his hand around his cock and began to stroke. I clamped my lips together to hold back a whimper. Before I knew what came over me, I was reaching down to massage my pussy through my underwear.
I wasn’t supposed to react this way toward my own parent. I wasn’t supposed to feel what I felt watching my father’s fist move up and down over his cock.
The tip glistened in the light from the television. He stopped pumping only to brush his thumb over the place where head met shaft. His lips parted. He choked out a grunt, then sucked air through his teeth.
Desire is a universal language; I didn’t have to be fluent to speak it.
The look on his face was a question to which my body responded to with a resounding yes. Slipping beneath the edge of my underwear, I aimed straight for my clit, which was pebble-hard and so sensitive that I nearly cried out when I touched it.
Squeezing the water glass in my free hand, I rubbed myself with one finger, then two, then one again when the pressure became too much. My pussy was sopping, and there seemed to be no end to how wet I could become. It felt right. It felt wrong. It felt so good it felt bad until it inevitably felt good again.
His head fell back against the headboard. He quickened his pace, gripping tightly and stroking all the way over the head and then down. Part of me wanted to pause and simply take it all in so I wouldn’t miss anything, but there was no prying my hand away when I was so close?—
When we were so close.
“Daddy.” I sighed the word, not sure where it had come from. I hadn’t called him Daddy since I was small enough to fit on his shoulders.
He tugged down on the base of his erection, as streaks of translucent white leapt onto his stomach. His jaw clenched. He pumped once, twice, three times, before letting go of his cock.
The clatter of his cellphone rattling on the bedside table jolted me back to my senses. I tore my hand from my underwear and trembled in shock.
What had I done?
My father scowled then picked up the phone.
“What?” he rasped. “No, you didn’t wake me.” He hit a button on the TV remote, muting the sound, then tossed the remote to the foot of the bed.
Still gripping the glass of water, I started backtracking into the hall on trembling legs.
“Calm down, Charlotte, I can’t understand you.”
I stopped short. Why was my mother calling him so late at night? Reluctantly, I crept back toward the door, still swollen, still aching, still struggling to understand how my body could betray me like this.
He stared blankly ahead, squinted, then smirked.
