The Father tries to convince her to buy new dresses, without explaining the why -- he can hardly tell her that he lusts after her, that now that he’s noticed he can’t unnotice the way she sways with each step, the way her nipples pebble at what seems like the slightest breath. He dodges her request to braid her hair after her nightly bath, unable to look her in the eye without feeling the sin hovering between them, the sin she doesn’t know she was a part of -- and it breaks him, just a little, to think of his perfect pure ward as a near occasion of sin, and so he swears to be better, to go and sin no more, and to visit his confessor as soon as his busy schedule will allow. That’ll do it, he thinks. It’ll all go back to normal.
But then… He’s settling into bed one night, when there’s a soft knock on the door.
“...Angel?” he calls, softly, knowing what will come before his spine straightens, realizing that things have changed, in the split second before she opens the door, padding in as she has a hundred times before. She doesn’t say a word, just pads over to his bed, crawling in beside him, as he lifts the covers, smiling at her. She turns her face into his chest and so he must keep his arms around her, waiting until she stops trembling and falls fast into sleep to dim the light. She nuzzles close, so of course he must squeeze her gently, cooing softly into her sleeping mind with tender words, one hand raking through those soft curls. He focuses on that, on the love he has for this small delicate thing in his arms, trying to blot out the way her lush form feels pressed against his, but the moment he acknowledges even the struggle to himself, he’s done for, cock throbbing to life as he swears under his breath.
“Papa?” she murmurs sleepily, feeling his breath catch.
“Nothing, love, go back to sleep. It’s alright.”
“Alright…” she rolls over, burying her face in his arm, and he bites a hole in his lip trying to will down his erection. It doesn’t work. It especially doesn’t work when she backs into him, searching for warmth, for the solid reassurance of his body next to hers, pressing her soft, round form into his -- and thus, pinning his cock between them, sleepily unaware. It’s everything he can do not to bolt from the bed, but wouldn’t that make things worse, for him to have to explain why she now, after years of this very ritual, couldn’t come to him for comfort -- couldn’t do the thing that got her to sleep when nothing else would. He hates himself, guilt burning through his chest, but the ache, the need for release won’t go away. The soft heat of her only stokes the flames higher. She whimpers, and he instinctively pulls her close, hands trembling as he wraps them around her, taking special care to avoid touching her more than absolutely necessary, keeping his palms turned outward, a pleading outstretching that reminds him of nothing less than the Mass itself, the moment when he feels divinity course through him, using him to transfigure and lead his flock through the Communion. And so, he turns to prayer, murmuring soft Latin into her hair as he curls around her, feeling her melt down into boneless, blissful sleep, begging God for forgiveness as he throbs against her.
Just when he thinks he can finally sleep… just when he thinks he’s got himself under control, she whimpers in her sleep, a soft, high thing, and shivers in his arms, her hips grinding back against his, and his cock presses into the cleft of her ass, and it’s instinct, pure animal lust knotting at the base of his spine like lightning, that has him rolling his hips, a soft, low groan escaping him, before he can help it.
But she stays asleep. He freezes, sure she’s any moment going to wake and turn to look at him in disgust and loathing but she just snuggles closer, half arching her rear into him, and he…. He reaches down with a trembling hand and allows himself to hold her hip -- this is innocuous, he half-lies to himself, it’s nowhere he wouldn’t catch her if she was falling… but as his thumb sweeps over the plush curve of her through the thin cotton, he throbs, and soon he’s softly rocking his hips, rutting against her, unable to stop himself. He bites his lip, squeezing his hand harder around her hip as he grinds into her, barely restraining his moans. But goddamn if she doesn’t feel good, made for this, made for him, if this doesn’t feel as right and good as a deep breath after diving below the cool water of the lake he took her last year, and then all he can think of is the way her body looked as she swam, gangly limbs and soft curves that hadn’t yet ripened into this lush feminine form beside him, and so it must be alright that he does this now, he tells himself, it’s not that she’s too young, she’s of age… he feels like a dirty old man, knows he’s taking advantage, but it feels so, so good. Just a little more, he tells himself, it feels too good to stop yet, and he isn’t thinking, unused as he is to allowing himself pleasure, when he feels it come like a tidal wave, all at once, and he has to fist his hand in her nightgown to keep himself quiet as he cums, covering her in what, for all the world, looks like the pearls he knows she hides under her mattress.
“Fuck.”