[M] [F-solo] [voy] [inc] “Am I pretty?” (Part 1)

Some of us have Secrets. The big, heavy, burdening kind of Secret. Those, you wouldn’t tell anyone, ever, not without a lawyer and probably not even with a lawyer.

But most of us have secrets, with a lowercase s. Those, you’d tell a trusted friend, a therapist. Those are the dark, vulnerable side of who we are. In a sense, they shape us, in a deep, intimate, private, and thus ever so powerful kind of way.

I had just one such secret. I had a daughter. And I had left her. I had walked out of the house 20 years before, and never looked back. Why? I was scared. I was “scared shitless”, to use a technical term. Fatherhood was not for me, it turns out.

I was not married to her mother, and we had grown distant in the years since Blair was born. The fights were constant, and increasingly loud, and I felt it was only a matter of time before one of us gave in to violence. My daughter did not deserve that environment. And I felt I bore most of the guilt for it. That I was the one that hadn’t adjusted. And that Laura would do just fine on her own. So, I took out half my savings from the bank, left them in an envelope, wrote a farewell letter, and walked out.

I left our house on the California coast, and drove east for two days straight. I ended up in a small town in Kansas, right off the freeway, and decided that I’d settle there. I didn’t really do anything to hide. I used my real name, my credit cards. If Laura had wanted to find me, she could have. If she had wanted child support money, she could have filed for it. But nothing ever came in the mail. I had a few relationships, but I always made sure to never get too close to anyone. I had savored family life once and realized it was not what I wanted. I acted accordingly.

My hair went from dark blonde to grey. I wasn’t old and wrinkly by any means, but my youth had certainly passed. Sometimes my back hurt in the morning. Sometimes it hurt at night. On truly blessed days it hurt both in the morning and at night. I had few friends, and fewer hobbies, mostly the outdoors, and the quiet serenity of solitude and nature. And sometimes I wondered what had been of Laura and Blair, my not-quite-a-wife and my daughter that I had left behind. I dared not reach out, I dared not try and find either of them.

“Why?”, you ask, dear reader. I felt guilty, in part, sure. I had left, some money on my way out to buy a peaceful escape. I felt I had no right to sneak back in. What would it be for? Assuage my feelings? Fear of dying alone? “Too late, buddy” I told myself. And part of it, I will be honest, was the fear that they would – after all – forgive my shortcomings, and welcome me back in their life. I wasn’t ready for commitment back then, and I didn’t want to discover that nothing had changed since.

But it wasn’t solely my decision to make. One afternoon, the phone rang. An area code from California. I picked up. “Hello?”

“Hi, is this Stephen Jones?”, a young upbeat female voice asked.
“Yes, yes, it’s Stephen. Who am I talking to?”
She hesitated a bit, and then blurted it all out, as if ripping off a band-aid. “Hi dad, it’s Blair, your daughter. From California. Remember me?”

My heart skipped a beat. Or two. Or three. I felt like I had been thrown into a whirlwind time machine. “Yes, yes, I remember” I said. “It is really you? Blair?”
“Yes, yes, dad, I am. I, well, do you have a minute?”

After 20 years, did I have a minute? I was tempted, I won’t lie, to say no and make it all go away. But I didn’t. I think I owed Blair to at least hear her out. She was an adult now, money was out of the question. And neither she nor Laura had reached out for 20 years. If she “broke the glass” now, it must be important. Maybe she was sick? A transplant? “Yes, yes I do.”

She explained that Laura had passed away a few months ago, cancer took her, doctors tried, nothing they could do. And now that she had no mother, she was hoping to at least have a dad. I told her the truth, I didn’t think I was ready for a fatherly role, and I lived almost 2000 miles away. If she wanted a friend to talk to on the phone sometimes, sure, I could be an older and maybe slightly wiser friend for her.

She said she would want to meet me, at least once. “I’ll drive to you”, she made sure to add. I couldn’t say no, now could I? And at this point, I was not sure I wanted to. She had never had a father. Her mother recently gone, all she was asking is to meet up, talk to me, and then she’d go back to California, and I would just have one more friend, a phone pal if you will. I owed my own estranged daughter this much, at least. Even a curmudgeon of my caliber could see that. “Ok”, I told her. “Why don’t you and I get to know each other on the phone? You don’t know me, and I don’t know you. If after a month of phone calls you still think I am worth driving to Kansas, then I won’t stop you. Deal?”

So, Blair started calling me. Every night at 9pm my time, without fail, she’d call me. We facetimed. She showed me her house, an adorable little apartment in downtown San Francisco. She showed me her pet, a loving adorable puppy named Woofer. “How quite millennial” I told her, to her laughter. She had an adorable laughter, Blair. Even over the phone you could feel her whole body laughing, participating in the experience of happiness. She worked at a bank, she managed investments for high wealth clients, and in her spare time she went to the gym and tried new food and coffee places around town. She had a food blog. She was full of youth, and dreams, and life, and passions.

About two weeks into our phone get to know each other, she asked me “Stephen, do you think I am pretty?”. She was, most definitely. She had my dark blonde hair, but curlier. Her eyes were as green as her mother’s. Her whole face said “be happy with me”, something about her smile was just a source of excitement. Yes, yes, she was pretty. “Yes, you are” I answered. “No, but, really, am I pretty?” she asked again. “Yes, you are very pretty” I said. That was probably the closest to fatherly love I had ever done for her. Maybe adult children truly are just good friends that you say nice things to.

“Stephen”, she added right before dropping off the call for the night, “I think you are pretty too”. Wasn’t she the sweetest, I thought to myself. The next day, instead of pretty, she asked if I thought she was beautiful. It felt ever so slightly different, like the nuance had changed. And yet I thought nothing of it as I told her that, yes, indeed, she was beautiful. And as I did, she let the camera of her phone go through her whole figure. She moved it down to her shoulders, her chest, all the way down to her legs, and her feet. And then she asked again. “Am I beautiful Stephen?” She was wearing a tank top and shorts, it’s not like much had been left to the imagination there. I sighed for a second, and told her that it was a bit inappropriate to do that to her father, however much it may not feel like I was. I should have probably shut it down harder, but I didn’t know how to father, and she was – indeed – beautiful. Her sad expression made me feel guilty for maybe having been too harsh, so I compensated by adding “but yes, you are indeed very beautiful”.

I didn’t want her to feel bad, maybe she just needed my approval, daddy issues and all that. But she took it as much more than that. She took it as outright encouragement. Two days later she accidentally dropped the phone during our call, only to reveal herself naked from the waist up. “Blair, are you naked?” I said, tried to keep my composure as she fumbled with her phone, feigning clumsiness, ensuring not a single pixel of her body was lost on me. I should have closed my eyes, looked away, I know. But I did not. And she didn’t chastise me for it. She just admitted it, as matter of fact as one could. “Yes, I am. It’s hot here. Does it bother you?”

“A bit”, I admitted, honestly. It bothered me in more ways than one. My brain knew it was my daughter, and it knew that it’s wrong. But having left her as a young child, and never seen her since, it can do things to your brain. Is she really my daughter? The bond just wasn’t there. And she was young. And attractive. She was petite, and yet curvy in the right places. She was built just like her mother, but better.

I was being honest, “yes, it does, it bothers me a bit”.
“Oh, sorry, Stephen” she responded. And she proceeded to put the phone down, and put a shirt on, and – needless to say – the phone was perfectly placed so that I could witness the entire scene. “Better now?”

What could I say? Accuse her? Of what? Trying to seduce her father over the phone? That sounded crazy. She hadn’t seen or heard from me in 20 years, and now she was trying to have phone sex with me? Absurd, right? It sounds crazy when I say it. So I said nothing of the sort. “Yes, yes, better now”.

And it was indeed better. She behaved herself. No more accidental nudity. No more beauty pageants. At least for a week. And then it was back. In full force. The seduction. As soon as I picked up the phone. “Stephen” she said, “I had a bit to drink tonight. I am very tipsy”.

“Well, then don’t drive, stay home after this call” I retorted, in what probably sounded a pathetic attempt at paternal care.
“No, see, when I am tipsy like that, I get certain desires in my head”, she said
This would have been a hint clear as day, and it’s not like it wasn’t, but once again I wasn’t going to assume the worst. “Desires? Like what?” I asked. Because she clearly meant she wanted to watch reality TV and eat cookies, right?
“Like this” she said, as she pointed the camera between her legs, and let her fingers slide inside of her.

She was rubbing her clit, making little circles around it, and letting a finger gently slide on her labia, and then inside of her, and then outside. I could hear her wetness as she penetrated herself, and her soft moans of pleasure as her finger hit all her magic spots.

“Blair!” I tried to scream into the phone, but my voice just wouldn’t come out. I was in awe. In shock. I couldn’t take my eyes off what was happening. I couldn’t talk, nor look away.

One finger became two, then two became three, and she started fucking herself. It’s like I could feel the force of her wrist pushing those fingers inside her pussy, it’s like I could feel her tightness, her wetness. Her moans were gentle, soft, like a melody. “mmm” “aaaa” like she was focused on a hard task, eager to deliver. I was lost. Lost in the scene. I wasn’t even touching myself, even though I was acutely aware of my erection, pushing against the fabric of my pants, begging to come out, as if unaware that there would be nothing for it to fuck, even if I let it out.

And then suddenly, the image blurred, and when it became clear again, there she was, my beautiful Blair, her cheeks flushed, her eyes widened, her hair messy, and her tongue licking the pussy off her fingers, savoring her own sweet delight.

“Like that”, she said, as if to provide some closure to that conversation. “So, I think it’s time you and I meet in real life. You’re ok with that, right?” she then immediately jumped to, hoping to catch me at my weakest.
And what a wise gamble that was, for I agreed to yes. “Yes, yes, that works.” I gave her my address, and said I’d be waiting for her in a couple of days.

What did she want from me? At first, I thought a father. Then a friend. Now, now I had no idea. Did she want a lover? Did she think she could fuck the pain of being abandoned away? Was she actually crazy? On drugs? I had no idea. But I was about to find out. She had just shared her location with me, and she was but a few hours drive away.

Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/aswk1e/m_fsolo_voy_inc_am_i_pretty_part_1