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Cherise and her Professor Father



Cherise only saw her college professor father in the summer times, for exactly one month, and only since the summer after she turned twelve, in accord with the court ruling. Since he didn't really share any parental responsibilities--when they were together in the summers, it was a relaxed, play-time for both--she wasn't accustomed to think of her father as a parent; rather as a friendly, fun, and energetic uncle, however distinguished he looked, tall and slender, with his full, silver hair and his tweed jackets. The third summer that Cherise visited her father at his tiny, but elegant flat in Boston, at the delicious age fourteen--full of surprises and quick maturation--she was a little lady: shoulder-length honey blond hair, usually worn in a sporty, bobbing pony-tail, reached down the nascent breasts, still tender from growth at times, and so new that Cherise felt uncomfortable sleeping on her belly, recently divested of all its previous baby fat, with the help of regular tennis lessons. The regular exercise toned and tanned her legs, already so proportionately long that she promised to have a figure like a super-model, once she was entirely filled in--which was not such a far away possibility. Cherise was happy, healthy, and well on her way from pre- to full blown adolescence, and that third summer in Boston, her father noticed.

Cherise's father's flat was in Cambridge, near to MIT, where he taught some version of engineering that Cherise was never clear about, being far more interested in reading "classics" and playing tennis with her attractive, tanned, 17-year-old instructor than in science. His apartment had one large bedroom, which doubled as his office and den, and a smaller, more formal living room, in addition to a kitchen and a bathroom. Though his salary at MIT wasn't scanty, it was still a professor's salary, and he preferred to spend his money on sporty cars--a new one every year, Saabs, BMWs, Jaguars--and on attractive, Bostonian, high-class single women whom he met sometimes in bars, or book stores, or lectures at nearby Harvard. Those women, though, didn't last long; they were often so jaded, so compartmentalised, and though well-educated, very close-minded and certain that they already knew everything worth knowing.

But Cherise, on a completely different hand, was very different. Not yet cynical nor defeated, her freshness, her willingness to explore, to discover, was enticing to her well-educated, cultivated, professor father: she made him feel young again, and with that Faustian feeling came undeniable lust for the similarly spirited: her began to want sweet, intelligent, bouncy, lithe Cherise.

And likewise, Cherise was beginning to feel less like a little girl, and more like a full-blooded woman. The proximity to a grown male as attractive as her father--with his well-modulated, intelligent conversation, his nice clothes, his pleasant demeanor, and his powerful sexual energy that Cherise noticed on some basic level--made her want to be more adult herself, more sexual. The first Saturday after her arrival in Boston by Amtrak from Tennessee, where she lived with her mother, a high school teacher, her father took her to a museum at Harvard. Some luscious paintings, a series of odalesques--paintings of Turkish harem women, traditionally--full-bodied, textured, densely coloured, nude women posed huge on the walls, and walking close to her father, who somehow knew a lot about art, Cherise began to feel uncomfortable as he pointed out details of the full-grown womens' bodies: "Look, sweetie, at the shading on the underside of her right breast--chiaroscuro. An italian word, you can tell, right?" Cherise would nod, and try not to stare at the looming, pink, and altogether magnificent breasts too obviously, then momentarily looking down at her own steadily growing chest, to compare. At the next painting: "Ah, here, look at the delicate curve of her thighs, look how the thighs are delineated, see there, no black lines, sheer control of shadow and colour!"

And Cherise thought of her own legs, only beginning to curve like a woman; if a man as virile and intelligent as her father liked these women so mature, how could he ever admire a young body like hers? She was certain that her body couldn't please him, more and more certain as they passed through the gallery, and equally certain that it was intensely important that he did.

For his part, Cherise's father was equally affected by the attention to female form, with his lovely daughter charmingly, attentively at his side. The clearly voluptuous women certainly were his ideal--but the smug, certain, haughty, and almost weary expressions on their dark-eyed faces were distasteful to him; he looked at Cherise, though, and saw youthful effervescence and curiosity, coupled with a rapidly developing body, clearly promising a loveliness equal to that of the harem women. He was turned on by her potential and reality, the same attributes about herself that were worrying Cherise: he knew she could be what he wanted, and she hoped that she could.

The few days that passed after that thought-provoking trip to the museum were filled with street fairs, trips to labs at MIT, plays done by summer workshops, and dinners with her father's friends and their families. But as innocent as their days were, nights at Cherise's dad's flat were increasingly lust-filled. Cherise on the couch in the living room, and her father in his king-sized futon in the other room--separated by a thin wall and nothing more--were mesmerized by thoughts of the other. The father wanted her youth, and the daughter wanted his maturity. They were a perfect match, as they lay there separately, each delicately, quietly manipulating themselves to thoughts of the other. Cherise was new at masturbation, and her father had little need of it, easily meeting women; but both spent their late-night hours in its compelling occupation.

After the second week of Cherise's visit--halfway through the month--both father and daughter were tired of forearm, and saturated with thoughts of sex. In her virgin mind, Cherise equated sex with maturity, with her father's sophistication, with all that she wanted to be as she neared her fifteen birthday--and with ease of the growing, natural lust in her young body. Her father intellectualised the matter as best he could--a natural response to a young specimen, Darwinian survival instinct, etc.--but could not negate the wild reality of his desire for her freshness, her eagerness. Tension was obvious, though unspoken, between the two; a bittersweet affection developed between the two: they wanted each other sweetly and completely, but could not voice the desire.

Halfway through the third week there was a monstrous thunderstorm over Cambridge, and at fourteen-and-a-half, Cherise was not accustomed to being scared by them, and at first was not, even though it was intense. She lay on her couch, her sole blanket, of chenille, covering her split legs and her right arm reaching into her pajama shorts, her fingers working furiously at her young clit. The rain was relaxing, though the grumbling thunder heightened her worry: with that extra sound, she would be less able to hear if her father were walking into the room, and she feared she might be caught in her haze of personal sexual oblivion, but she continued on. In the next room, of course, her father suffered the same anxiety, sitting at the edge of his futon, facing strategically away from the door, his hand gripping his cock almost painfully tight, imagining sweet virgin pussy, as it protruded from his shorts. He was almost there, and so was blond, long-legged Cherise, though both assumed they were alone in their auto-erotic misadventures.

But then he came, and as he came, a burst of lightning accompanied him, along with a bolt of thunder of such magnitude of volume that still-young Cherise, alone in a dark, still unfamiliar room, was completely frightened and shocked: she shot up, quickly wiped her fingers mostly dry on her T-shirt, and ran towards the door separating her from her beloved daddy.

His low, orange reading light beside his bed still on, Cherise could see her father sitting tensely at the side of the bed, staring down; as she moved closer, with her sure, limber step, she saw his nicely sized cock, dripping and oozing, slowly decreasing in size: she was certain, for a fraction of a second, that she was dreaming, hallucinating, crazy. When her father swiftly turned to look at her, a dismayed, confused expression on his aristocratic features, Cherise instantly understood the reality of the situation, stood stock still, and after a moment, she giggled.

"Oh God, oh Jesus, oh shit," her father mumbled, stuffing himself roughly into his boxer shorts.

"Jesus Dad, this is funny. That's so weird, you doing that," Cherise proclaimed. "You're my DAD!"

"Um, Cherise, should we talk about this? Shit, I can't believe this happened..."

"Dad, it's okay... um... this is so weird... I mean... I understand."

"Understand? What? No, this was so... uh... irresponsible of me, um... I'm sorry honey... should we talk? Are you okay? Did you see?"

"Yes! I saw! And Daddy... uh... yeah... it's okay, I mean, I'm grown up now, right? I'm cool with that. I'm adult!" Cherise was eager to insist upon her maturity, both to calm herself--the sight had been intimidating and exciting at the same time--and to allay her father's fears that he'd shocked her.

"Jesus, honey, you're so young... you're so innocent, I've fucked you up... I shouldn't have... so irresponsible... shit--I'm so sorry! Jesus... do you even understand the tempt--um... I mean... being around you... shit, shit... I should stop while I'm ahead," he finished, calming down from his sexual high and the terror of his daughter's discovery, and he smiled, grabbed some tissues, and began to clean himself up.

"You know, Dad," Cherise began, sounding proud, "I know what that's all about, I mean, it's cool with me, even... uh... I even do that too!"

"Cherise!"

"No really! It's really all right! Here," she offered him her right hand, "smell this!" Cherise's father smelt her fingers, and he smelt a woman who understood desire.

"Shit, Cherise."

"Yeah. So, you know, um, it's cool..." Cherise faltered, suddenly embarrassed; had she revealed too much in order to prove to her father her maturity?




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