Breakfast with Daddy


Of course, Samantha knew, it had been nothing but a dream.

Still she couldn't help smiling.

Her father, Max, was smiling too when he came down for breakfast. He, too, was thinking about that strangest dream he'd had; and he, too, found himself amused by it rather than appalled, as by rights he should be. But then what he had dreamt about had been so inconceivable, so unbelievable that it was safely in the realm of fiction, thus enjoying, as it were, the sort of artistic licence that allowed the greatest tragedies to be viewed as something interesting and funny.
And from the nightly scream that had roused him in a sweat, to the pose in which he had found his teenage daughter, lying stark naked on her bed, supine, her eyes closed but her legs wide open; from the surprised gaze, lasting minutes or even hours in his memory, that had electrified the air between them, to the ridiculous wet slurping sound when, to his shock, she pulled the full length of a green banana from between her legs; from his maddening inability to move or even say something to the sleepy smile on her face as she walked up to him and put his hands around his back, her pebble-sized nipples brushing against his belly as she pulled him towards her bed. . . it had all the makings of a wet dream, a pornographic fantasy born of the night's ambient heat, combined with the full moon, the evening's softcore movie that had so disgusted Sylvia, his wife, that she had taken a double dose of her sleeping pills and gone to bed early, and the inadvertend glimpse Max had caught of young Samantha stepping out of the shower on his own way to bed after eight and a half film weeks of sultry sex.

That crazy human brain, Max mused, still smiling as he sat down beside his wife. So utterly predictable in one way, and so weirdly erratic in another. "Morning, Sam," he said, throwing his pretty daughter an amused look.

Samantha blushed. The way her father had just winked at her, it seemed like he knew all about the sick, perverted dream she'd had, of him standing stark naked in her bedroom door, her staring at his meaty member as it slowly hardened at the sight of her; of her getting up and seducing him, pulling him onto her, between her legs, staring into his eyes as he finally pushed it into her, pushed it all the way into her, harder and faster every time. . .


   and at the breakfast table Sammy blushes even more and stares into her cereal bowl when she notices that she's been clamping her thighs together rhythmically under the table at the thought, and that her parents, sitting right across from her, can't not have noticed.

"What have the two of you to smile about?" her mother asked, more puzzled than suspicious if her voice is any indication. "Did something happen that nobody told me about?"

Her father shook his head. "I don't know about her," he said, "but I was just remembering a dream I had. Funny to what efforts the mind goes to keep the brain busy at night. "

"Not just the brain, apparently," Sylvia growled in mock reproach.

    "What little I remember you were in and out of bed all night. Weak bladder again? Or did you have to go puke like I almost did after that stupid movie?"

    "Please," Max said, still smiling weakly. "Some people are trying to eat here. "

    "Fine, fine. " Always early to bed and early to rise, Sylvia had long finished her breakfast; now she got up and put away her bowl and coffee cup. "I'll leave you two to your good spirits then," she said, "while I go try to get some work done. " Blowing her husband a routine kiss, she went out and closed the door behind her.

    Only then did Samantha finally dare to raise her eyes and meet her father's gaze. She wasn't so sure now about the night's happenings as she had been a few minutes before.

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       Now that she paid attention, there was a strange smell emanating from between her legs; and the wetness threatening to seep out and into the back of her nightshirt felt like it was more than mere arousal. "You had the dream, too?" her father whispered, his eyes flicking to her nipples hardening under the nightshirt and then back up to her eyes.

    Her father's cock throbbing inside her; her back arcing as she couldn't hold back anymore, grunting and gnashing her teeth in the fiercest orgasm imaginable. How could it not have been a dream?

    And then the thought of her father sitting across from her, now, in the flesh, with only two small steps between them. Of the thick member dangling between his legs, waiting for no more than a touch from her to rise up to its full glory again. It's too late now; her nightie's soiled, there's no point in dissembling anymore. "Did we actually do it?" she asks, her voice barely a breath.

    "I think so," he replies, his gaze again flicking to her breasts, then down to his own crotch hidden behind the table. "Certainly feels like it. "

    Samantha swallows hard, then forces herself not to look away. "Can we do it again?" she asks.

    Her father smiles.