I wonder what it would feel like
to stand between Daddy’s knees
while he sat in that chair,
close enough to feel the warmth of him
before he ever touched me.

My dress falling softly around my thighs.
His eyes on me. Waiting.

Until his hands found the hem
and slipped beneath it, slowly, deliberately,
like he had all the time in the world
to discover what was waiting there.

I wonder if I would breathe his name
or forget how to speak entirely.
If his hands would wander higher,
drawing me closer until there was nowhere left
to pretend I didn’t want him.

God, I want to know what Daddy’s hunger feels like.

Not careful. Not measured.

The kind that makes him reach for me
before either of us has decided what happens next.

I want to know what it feels like when he grabs me
and suddenly my back is against the wall,
his body close to mine, his mouth finding mine
with all the longing we have never given words to.

A kiss that isn’t polite.

A kiss that says, there you are.

His hands roaming over me
like he has imagined this too,
like there are places on my body he has wanted to touch
and tonight he has finally stopped telling himself he shouldn’t.

I want to feel wanted without having to wonder.
To feel his fingers tighten around me
because closer still isn’t close enough.

To kiss him until the rest of the room disappears,
until there is only Daddy, my body against his,
and all those quiet, impossible things
we have never said.

But maybe that isn’t the part I want most.

Maybe the fantasy that ruins me comes later.

When the night has softened,
when I straighten my dress and find my shoes
and reach for the things that mean it is time to go.

I imagine Daddy watching me.

And for once, he doesn’t simply let me leave.

Stay.

One word. Maybe quiet. Maybe almost reluctant.

Stay.

And I look at him because surely I misunderstood.
But he reaches for me again.

Not because he wants another kiss.
Not because he wants my body.
Not because there is something else he wants from me.

Because he wants me there.

Stay a little longer.

So I do.

Maybe we talk. Maybe we laugh.
Maybe I curl against him with my head on his chest
and listen to his heartbeat without wondering
when I have overstayed my welcome.

Maybe he tells me things I have never been allowed to know.
Small things. Ordinary things.

The pieces of him that exist
outside closed doors and stolen moments.

Maybe Daddy lets me see the rooms inside him
I have only ever stood outside of.

And that is the fantasy I almost cannot bear.

Because I already know what it is to want his hands.
I know what it is to imagine his mouth.
I know what hunger does when I think about Daddy
wanting my body.

But this?

This is something far more dangerous.

Daddy wanting me to stay.
Daddy making room for me.

Daddy opening the door
instead of meeting me on the other side of it.

Daddy letting me in.

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