My Dad Couldn’t Stop Looking at Mom’s Dress

My name is Mariana, and ever since Mom left us, I’ve lived alone with my father in the apartment on the fourth floor. The house still smells like her perfume in the most absurd corners: the drawer with the tablecloths, the hem of a curtain, the glove compartment of the car. Sometimes, opening closets he had sealed with tape, I find pieces of her. A scarf. A lipstick. A recipe notebook in her slanted handwriting. That afternoon, though, I found something different.

I was looking for an old sweater at the back of the hallway closet when the dress appeared. Two-piece, bone-colored satin, with a low neckline and a skirt that clung at the top and flared from the hips. I remembered it well. Mom had worn it the summer before she got sick, to a dinner with her colleagues from the law firm.

I tried it on without thinking too much. I’d always been fuller than she was, especially in the hips and chest. The bathroom mirror gave me back an image that surprised me: the dress was tight on me in places where it had hung loose on Mom, and the fabric seemed made for me. I turned once. I looked over my shoulder. My ass lifted the skirt and made a curve that didn’t look like a daughter’s. It looked like another woman’s. I ran a hand over my stomach, felt how the satin clung to my hardened nipples underneath, without a bra, and noticed I was already wet just from looking at myself.

I was going to take it off when I heard my father’s footsteps coming up the stairs.

“Mariana? Dinner’s ready,” he said from the hallway, and came in without knocking.

He stopped in the doorway.

I looked at him through the mirror, not turning around yet. He didn’t move either. His hand was on the doorknob, knuckles white.

“And that?” he asked at last.

“It was in a box. It was Mom’s.”

“I know.”

He stayed silent longer than any answer required. I turned slowly, letting the dress move with my hips, not really knowing why I was doing it that way.

“Does it look good on me?”

My father swallowed. I saw him swallow. And I also saw, without wanting to see it, the bulge forming in his dress pants.

“It looks…” he stopped.

“Say it.”

“It’s not something a father should say to his daughter.”

“We live alone, Dad. If you don’t tell me, who will?”

He leaned a shoulder against the frame as if he needed support. He was forty-seven, but that night he looked older. Or maybe younger. It was hard to tell.

“It looks better on you than on your mother.”

He said it almost under his breath, like a confession that had slipped out. I felt something loosen in my stomach, something that shouldn’t have been there, and I noticed a hot thread escaping between my legs, wetting the inside of my thigh.

“Let’s go down to dinner,” he said, and left.

***

I went down without changing. I told myself it like a joke: it’s only dinner, he’s thinking about her, not me. But when I walked into the dining room and he lifted his eyes from his plate, I knew it wasn’t only that.

We ate in almost complete silence for the first few minutes. I watched him look at my neckline, look away, look back again. His fingers gripped the fork too hard. I clenched my thighs under the table and felt my cunt throbbing, swollen, slippery, against the satin that was already staining.

“Dad, you’re not eating.”

“I am eating.”

“You’re looking.”

He set the cutlery down on the plate and took a deep breath. The napkin had slipped into his lap and he didn’t pick it up. Under the white fabric, his cock was clearly outlined, taut against his leg. I saw it. He knew I saw it.

“Sorry, sweetheart.”

“I didn’t say it bothered me.”

He held my gaze for the first time that whole night. His eyes were a little bright, and I, sitting across from him, wearing my mother’s neckline and a body that wasn’t hers, felt like I was doing something that could no longer be undone.

“How long has it been, Dad?”

“How long since what?”

“Since you’ve been with a woman.”

There was a long pause. He filled his glass, hesitated, and finally spoke.

“Since Mom.”

“That’s a long time.”

“I know.”

I poured myself more wine without asking whether he wanted any. I refilled his glass too. He didn’t object.

“And how do you manage?”

“Mariana…”

“Seriously. I’m curious. I’m twenty-two, Dad, I’m not a little kid.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. Whenever he talked about uncomfortable things, he always did that.

“I jerk off.”

“With what?”

“With whatever. Memories. A robe of hers I kept.”

“A robe.”

“Back when it still smelled like her perfume. I’d put it over my face and jerk off. It’s been months since it smelled like anything.”

I drank. The wine was warming my face and other things. My cunt was leaking against the chair. I don’t know when I started enjoying the conversation, but I was enjoying it.

“And since the smell faded?”

“I think about her. I do what I can.”

“And does it work?”

“Not always. Sometimes I sit there with my dick in my hand for half an hour and don’t come. Other nights I can’t even get it up.”

I looked at him for a long moment. The dress had slipped a little off my right shoulder and I didn’t adjust it. Half my tit was showing. He didn’t look away.

“If I gave you something of mine, would it help?”

He looked up slowly.

“Mariana.”

“Something that smelled like me. A garment. Any of them.”

“You shouldn’t offer me that.”

“But I am offering it.”

I slid my hand down under the table, lifted myself slightly from the chair, and without breaking eye contact, I pulled my panties down my legs. They were soaked, heavy, the crotch darkened by a large, viscous stain. I folded them over my palm without hiding them. I put them on the table between us, next to the bread, the wet side facing up.

My father closed his eyes for a second. When he opened them, his expression had changed.

“I can’t accept that.”

“Yes, you can.”

“Daughter…”

“Take them, Dad. I swear I don’t want to know what you’re going to do with them. But I don’t want to see you like this another night.”

He reached out very slowly, as if the garment might burn him, and took them. He held them between his fingers. It took him almost a full minute to bring them to his face. When he did, he pressed the wet fabric against his nose and mouth, closed his eyes again, and breathed deeply, and I saw his chest move and his cock stand out even more under his pants.

“You smell just like her.”

“That’s not possible.”

“I swear it is. And you’re drenched, Mariana. You’re dripping.”

He said it in a broken voice that cut something inside me. And then, without having planned it, I heard myself say:

“Do it here.”

“Do what?”

“What you were going to do upstairs. Take it out and jerk off here. I won’t look.”

***

My father moved his chair away from the table so his waist would be out of my line of sight and, awkwardly, without looking at me, undid his belt. I lowered my eyes to the plate. I heard the snap of the button, the zipper, the give of the fabric, and then the unmistakable sound of a hand closing around hard flesh.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. Keep eating if you want. I’m going to keep going.”

I heard him wrap my panties around his dick, and then a slow, rhythmic motion that I was trying not to translate mentally. The wet sound of my own fluids in the satin, pressed against my father’s skin, sliding up and down his cock. I took a bite of meat. I chewed twice. I couldn’t swallow. I slipped a hand under the table, hiked up my skirt, spread my legs, and pushed two fingers into my cunt because I couldn’t hold back anymore. I was about to come just from hearing him breathe.

“Dad.”

“Mm?”

“Who are you thinking about?”

“Your mother.”

“Liar.”

He laughed through his nose, a nervous, restrained sound.

“Why are you so sure?”

“Because Mom didn’t fill out this dress like I do. Because Mom didn’t drip like this. And because you’re smelling my pussy, Dad, not hers.”

The motion stopped for a second. Then it started again, faster. I could hear the soft slosh of the wet fabric sliding over skin.

“Mariana.”

“Don’t stop. It’s okay.”

“You’re hot.”

“I’m hot. I’m touching myself. Right now. Under the table.”

I said it without thinking, and by saying it I confirmed something I hadn’t wanted to confirm all night. The wood of the seat suddenly felt too hard, too aware. My own breathing had changed pace. My fingers went in and out of me with a wet sound I no longer cared whether he heard.

I stood up from the chair.

“Mariana, no.”

“Don’t move.”

I went around the table. He had my panties wrapped around his fist, and between his fingers stuck out the reddened, shiny head of a cock that was thick, very thick, with a heavy drop of liquid hanging from the glans. I should not have been seeing that, and I didn’t want to stop seeing it. I pushed his hand away.

“Daughter…”

“Close your eyes. Think about her.”

“I can’t.”

“Try.”

I knelt between his legs before he could stop me. I grabbed his cock with my hand and felt it hot, hard, throbbing against my palm. I squeezed it slowly from base to tip, and a second thick drop surfaced at the tip. I leaned in and licked it. The salty taste stayed on my tongue and made my thighs press together.

“Mariana, Jesus…”

“Shut up, Dad.”

I opened my mouth and took him all the way in. Everything I could. I felt the glans touch the back of my throat and he let out a hoarse groan I had never heard in twenty-two years of life. I started sucking him slowly, bobbing my head up and down, hollowing my cheeks, pulling him out with a wet sound to lick him from base to tip and take him all the way back in. I grabbed his balls with my other hand and kneaded them while I sucked him. He clutched the back of the chair with one hand and my nape with the other, not pushing, not daring, letting me do it.

“My God… not like that… I’m going to come in your mouth…”

I pulled off with a plop and looked at his shiny cock, slick with my saliva, pointed at my face.

“Not yet.”

I stood up, braced my hands on the table, turned my back to him, and pulled the dress up to my waist. The dining room air touched me for the first time on a night that had kept getting hotter. I spread my ass cheeks with both hands and showed him everything: the soaked, swollen, open cunt, and the tight ass just above it. I felt his hands on my hips. I felt him hesitate. I also felt that he could no longer stop.

“Think about Mom,” I told him, in a voice so low I could barely hear myself.

“I’m thinking about you.”

I held onto the wood. I felt the head of his cock slide between the lips of my cunt, soaking up my wetness, and then he pushed in slowly. When he entered me, my whole body tightened. He was thick, thicker than I had imagined, and he filled me centimeter by centimeter until I felt his pubic hair press against my ass. A long moan escaped me, almost a whimper, bitten back against my arm. It was too much, and at the same time exactly what I had been waiting for since the moment I tried on the dress in front of the mirror, even if I hadn’t admitted it to myself.

“Easy,” he murmured, with his whole cock inside, not moving.

“Don’t call me daughter.”

“What do you want me to call you?”

“Say anything. Anything but daughter. Slut. Whore. Whatever you want. Anything but daughter.”

“Whore,” he said, in a rough voice, and pushed all the way in.

He started slowly. He came almost all the way out and shoved back in to the hilt, very slowly, each thrust a dry slap of skin against skin. I braced myself on the table and my hips sought his before he moved them. The wineglass fell. Neither of us picked it up. Red wine mixed with the spilled sauce and spread across the tablecloth like a stain that would never come out. He yanked the dress down from the front and my tits popped completely free. He grabbed them from behind and pinched my nipples while he kept fucking me.

“You’re too much alike,” he said, voice breaking between thrusts.

“Like who?”

“Her. And no. She never squeezed me like this.”

I understood. It was a contradiction that couldn’t be solved with words, and that was why we kept going without them for a long while. Just the sound of the table hitting the wall, the slap of my cunt being speared on his cock, his balls hitting my clit every time he drove in all the way. Then he spoke again, in broken phrases, nonsense, words a father doesn’t say to his daughter and that at that moment no longer sounded forbidden to me.

“Such a sweet cunt, whore, so tight, the way you suck my cock with that pussy…”

I answered with worse words.

“Fuck me, Dad, harder, break me, give me all that cock…”

He pulled out, turned me around, and laid me on my back over the table, between the plates. The cutlery hit the floor. He spread my legs, lifted them, propping my ankles on his shoulders, and drove his cock back inside me in one thrust. I screamed. He covered my mouth with his hand and kept fucking me like that, folded in half, my cunt up high and his thrusts splitting me in the same place over and over. I licked the fingers covering my mouth. I sucked his thumb. He lowered the other hand and started rubbing my clit with his finger while he fucked me to the hilt.

“I’m going to come, Dad, I’m going to come…”

“Come, whore, come on your father’s cock.”

I came screaming into his palm. My cunt clenched around his cock in long, violent spasms, and I felt everything contract inside me, spilling over the base of his cock, over his balls, over the tablecloth. He didn’t stop. He kept fucking me while I came, and the orgasm stretched and stretched until I started trembling uncontrollably under him.

“We’re not talking about this tomorrow,” I told him in a pause, my voice rough, when he took his hand off my mouth.

“No.”

“Or ever.”

“Or ever.”

“But tonight…”

“Tonight.”

His fingers dug into my hip. I felt the rhythm change, felt it stop being careful, felt it lose the last trace of being a father. He drove into me faster and faster, deeper and deeper, and the table skidded with us. And as for me, I stopped pretending I was helping him. I was doing exactly what I had wanted to do from the precise moment I saw myself in the mirror wearing his wife’s dress.

“Inside, Dad. Come inside.”

“Mariana…”

“Fill me. Fill me with cum. I want to feel you.”

When he finished, it was inside. I let him. I even pulled him in. I hooked my legs around his waist and pressed myself against him so not a single drop would get away. I felt his cock swell inside me and the first jets of hot cum hit deep inside me, one after another, thick, so many that I felt it starting to overflow at the edges of my cunt. He clenched against me, groaning through closed teeth, emptying himself completely.

I stayed braced on the table for a few more seconds, feeling the heat sliding down the inside of my thighs when he slowly pulled his cock out, listening to his breathing behind me, both of us broken and both of us calming down slowly. I lowered a hand, touched my cunt, open and dripping, and brought my stained fingers to my mouth.

He sat back down in the chair, without fixing his clothes, his cock still half softening, shiny with me. I didn’t pull down the dress. I let his semen keep running down my thigh.

“This doesn’t happen again,” he said.

“No.”

We looked each other in the eye. I had never looked at him like that before.

“But I’m keeping the dress,” I added.

He laughed, a tired laugh, a laugh that wasn’t a father’s.

“Keep it.”

I went up to my room without finishing dinner. I took it off carefully, hung it on the side where my own clothes hung, not Mom’s. And when I got into bed, with the taste of wine still in my mouth, the taste of him still on my tongue, and my body still open and dripping onto the sheets, I knew two things. The first, that the hallway closet would keep holding boxes. The second, that sooner or later one of us would open them again.