Inching forward, I brought my eye closer to the cracked door. It felt wrong to spy on him like this, but I couldn’t stop myself. 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. I had spent the past six years wondering about his life without me, what he did with his free time, where he slept.
I would run back to my room in a second, but first I needed a glimpse into his private life. His chest rose and fell. I thought he might be sleeping, until his hand slid into his lap. He cupped himself through his boxers, and I saw it, pushing at the dark fabric.
He was hard.
I gasped. Eyes closed tight, he rubbed himself slowly, like a man with all the time in the world. My inner muscles clenched along with my stomach, my blood running hot and cold, curiosity versus confusion.
Mason my father versus Mason the man.
I licked my lips, incapable of tearing my gaze away from his bulge. This was wrong. I was wrong. Still, I desperately needed to know what he was hiding in there.
My first, last and only relationship had existed entirely online with a German guy I met on an art forum. I had never touched a cock, or seen one in the flesh instead of on a laptop or phone screen, but 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 the man who used to be my father.
I wanted to race back to my room almost as much as I wanted to stay and see more.
Mason pulled the waistband of his boxers down over his cock. I had always looked forward to this part with my ex, what I thought of as the reveal. But Mason’s 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. Mason wrapped his hand around his cock and began to stroke. I clamped my lips together to hold back a whimper, and before I knew what’d come over me, I was reaching down to massage my pussy through my underwear.
I wasn’t supposed to react this way toward the man who’d raised me. I wasn’t supposed to feel what I felt watching his 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 the head met the shaft. 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 Mason’s face was a question to which my body responded 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.
Setting the water glass down on the floor so I wouldn’t drop it, 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 that it felt bad until it inevitably felt good again.
Mason’s 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 or why it had floated to the top of my mind at this exact moment. I hadn’t called him Daddy since I was small enough to fit on his shoulders. It should’ve felt wrong, but there was no denying how much it turned me on to say it.
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 finally 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 released the breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.
Mason scowled and picked up the phone.
“What?” he rasped. He hit a button on the TV remote, muting the sound, then tossed the remote control to the foot of the bed.
I started backtracking into the hall on trembling legs.
“Calm down, Gretchen, 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.
“Well, where’s she supposed to be?” he asked, his tone mocking. “You won’t let me see her for six years and now you’re calling because you’ve lost track of her?”
My breath stuttered on its way into my chest. The only response my mother had ever offered as to why he had stopped visiting was, your father has his reasons. Of course, I knew now that he wasn’t my father, but even so, she’d been happy to let him pretend for over a decade. What could have happened to make her forbid him from coming to see me?
There was a long stretch of silence, followed by a heavy sigh.