The denim shorts were new, or at least they felt new because of the way he looked at them. I was standing by the coffee maker, waiting for the drip, wearing the pair that hit just above the knee. When I turned, I caught him sitting on the sofa, a book open in his lap but his eyes locked onto the bare expanse of my thighs. He didn't look away quickly. He let his gaze drag from my knees up to my waist, slow and deliberate, before meeting my eyes. A faint, almost imperceptible smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"Like what you see, Daddy?" I asked, my voice dropping an octave, testing the waters.
He set the book down, his gaze raking over me again. "Always, Princess."
The kitchen had always been our sanctuary, or so I thought. Mom was already in bed by the time we started our Sunday ritual. Just the two of us, like it had always been. Sundays were for pancakes. He'd make the batter, flip the golden discs, and drizzle syrup in a perfect cursive 'L' for my name. We'd eat in comfortable silence, the air thick with the safety of father and daughter. But lately, the pancakes tasted different. The syrup felt sticky with something else.
That morning, he stood behind me as I sat at the counter, picking at my eggs. He wasn't reading the paper. He was watching me eat. His hand came down, resting on the small of my back. It wasn't the quick, patting touch of years past. His palm spread wide, pressing firmly against the fabric of my tank top, and he began to rub slow, circular motions.
"Good girl," he whispered, his voice a low rumble that vibrated against my spine. "Eating well."
I looked up, catching his reflection in the microwave door. His eyes were dark, hungry. "Thanks, Daddy."
The word felt heavier now, a key turning in a lock. I was nineteen now, and the change was in the air, thick and electric.
I was complicit. I knew it. I started noticing how he liked it when I brushed my hair back, leaving my neck exposed. I started choosing my clothes for him. A week later, I bought the skirt. It was short—shocking short for a girl who'd been modest since she was ten. It rode up high on my hips when I sat. I wore it to the living room where he was folding laundry.
He looked up as I walked in, his eyes dropping to my legs immediately, tracing the curve of my thighs exposed by the hem. He didn't say anything, just set down a pair of his boxers and patted the cushion beside him.
"Come here, baby," he said.
I walked over, the fabric swishing around my knees. I didn't sit; I straddled his lap, the short skirt bunched around my thighs. He wrapped his arms around my waist, his hands splaying over my lower belly, fingers digging in slightly. He pulled me close, burying his face in my neck, inhaling deeply.
"My little girl," he breathed against my skin. "Growing up so fast."
"I'm not a little girl anymore," I murmured, tilting my head to give him better access.
"No," he agreed, his voice rough. "You're not."
The hug lasted. Usually, he'd pull away after a few seconds, ruffling my hair. This time, he held me for a full minute. I could feel the heat of his chest, the steady thrum of his heart against mine. I pressed myself flush against him, my hands resting on his shoulders, waiting for him to move, but he didn't. He just held me, his grip tightening just a fraction, as if he was memorizing the shape of me.
"Princess," he whispered against my ear. "My good girl."
That night, the anticipation was a wire pulled tight in my chest. I lay in bed, listening to the house settle. Then, the sound came. The shower.
Dad took evening showers. I knew the rhythm, but tonight, I lay still and listened to the water hiss. I imagined him there, the steam fogging the glass, water streaming down the broad expanse of his shoulders, the way his t-shirt clung to his chest when he was done. I closed my eyes and ran my hand down my stomach, over the waistband of my panties.
I thought about his hand on my lower back. I thought about the way his eyes darkened when I wore the skirt. I thought about him calling me *Good girl*.
My fingers slid under the fabric, rubbing a slow circle against my clit, imagining his calloused palm taking the place of mine. I bit my lip, a shiver running through me. I wasn't rushing. I was savoring it. The wait was the best part.
Mom was gone. The pancakes were just pancakes now, but the energy in the kitchen had shifted, charged and waiting. He was waiting for me to be ready. And I was ready.
I squeezed my eyes shut, a shiver running through me. Something was coming. I could feel it in the air, in the way he looked at my legs, in the way he held me just a second too long.
My ass belonged to him. And soon, he was going to take it.