Reflections of Desire

A Daddy Daughter Tale

R.R. Ryan

© Copyright 2025 by R.R. Ryan

NOTE: This work contains material not suitable for anyone under eighteen (18) or those of a delicate nature. This is a story and contains descriptive scenes of a graphic, sexual nature. This is a work of fiction. Unless otherwise indicated, all the names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents in this book are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Reflections of Desire

Right this moment

This is ten years after Mother left us for another guy, ten years without her. For all those years, it’s Daddy and me. Sure, he’s dated, but nothing ever works. Trust, once broken, eludes some people.

However, we have trust in each other. So, why shouldn’t we have more?

The night comes, I stare at myself in the closet mirror. Sucking in my stomach until the lower ribs show. Hunching my shoulders, I angle my chin to sharpen my jawline, and my hair spreads across, forming a shroud over my collarbones. The body stares back, vacant-eyed, waiting for its next set of instructions.

Sometimes, in the right light, I look older than eighteen. Tonight, with the makeup scrubbed from my face and my shirt unbuttoned halfway, I’m a girl who wants Daddy to catch her.

The decision took hold hours ago. Had the willy-nilly all day, I haven’t eaten since lunch, and now my stomach gnaws at itself. Hunger sharpens things, but I ignore it. The fact is, I need to feel every atom of the moment.

The bedroom’s a mausoleum.

Piles of sweatshirts and notebooks hem me in from all sides, blocking the air vent so the whole place smells of lint and artificial vanilla. The string lights are dead in one corner, leaving a tumor of darkness on the far wall. A graveyard of bobby pins and hairbands covers the top of my dresser.

Quickly, I brush aside the debris and start with my shirt. White, thin, almost transparent under the lamplight. Off it goes, buttons snapping, the fabric cold where it brushes my skin. Stepping on them as I wiggle out of my jeans, I let the slacks drop to the carpet as well.

The pants fight me. Strange how some simple things aren’t simple a’tall, I have to bend, squat, peel them from my thighs with both hands. The effort makes me pant, raises goosebumps along my bare arms. For a second, I catch the outline of my body in the mirror. Small breasts, pale and tipped with pink, ribcage defined but not sharp, hipbones round and ready to be cradled.

In quiet moments, I watch my legs tense as I stand. The reflection seems alien, not ugly, extra, or unfamiliar, a borrowed, anatomically correct mannequin.

Shedding the rest.

The bralette’s gray and crusted with months of sweat. The panties are cotton with little strawberries across the back, cutesy and juvenile. They disgust me, so I throw both into the laundry basket. Pulling the pile of new things from the closet shelf.

White lace, still crisp with the price tags. The thong is a scrap, more suggestion than substance. Teasing myself, I hold it up to the light, see the closet through it. Then, I tug it up my legs and feel the fabric slip between the cheeks, the faintest tickle where it rides against me.

The matching bra’s no better, an A-cup with pointless underwire and straps thin as dental floss. With arms contorted behind me, I struggle with the clasp. Fighting the urge to give up. When it finally clicks, I stand taller. With trembling hands, I turn, side to side, watching the way the lace hugs and exposes me.

Without a doubt, I crave to become someone he’d desire.

When I walk, my feet leave damp prints as I cross to the bathroom. Gazing at myself again. Without makeup, I’m all sharp corners, cheekbones, a thin mouth, gigantic eyes framed by wet lashes. My hair sticks to my forehead in ugly streaks. Twisting the faucet, I let the water run until the pipes clatter and the heat floods the air. Before getting in, I strip again, tossing the lingerie onto the edge of the sink. The mirror fogs over before I even step into the shower.

The water burns.

Forcing myself to stand under it, to let the heat sear my shoulders and down my spine. Washing myself with the expensive stuff from the locked drawer. A lily-scented body wash and shampoo that smells summerish. Crap on a stick, I use too much. Coating my skin and scalp until I’m slick all over, fingers slipping as I scrub.

Picturing his hands doing this, slow, methodical, tracing the arch of my back, the dip above my ass. When I rinse off, I stand shivering as the water slides from my body. Once I’ve finished, I yank open the shower door and step onto the cold tile.

Already used, rough and scratchy, I dry off with a towel from the bottom of the stack. Which leaves my skin pink and raw in places. Wiping the fog from the mirror, I peer at the new version of myself: dripping, nipples hard from the cold, lips parted. With teeth bared, I grin. An animal in her natural habitat.

The razor comes out next.

Propping my foot on the toilet lid, I drag the blade up my shin, careful not to nick the bone. Watching the foam collect hair and dead skin in its wake, I shave slow and cautiously. No nicks, no cuts. Yearning to be perfect, to be soft. Checking for missed patches, I run my palm over my leg and do it again.

Then I switch legs, do my arms, and the strip above my pussy. The heat flushes my face, not from the effort, but from the thought of him seeing it, touching it. Thinking about his tongue down there, plunging into me. Fucking intense, Daddy’s mouth on my twat. Studying the hair swirling down the drain as I rinse the razor in the sink.

Back in my room, I towel off a second time. Yanking on the lace thong, the bra, fumbling with the straps until the cups sit right. The panties bite into my hips, leaving faint lines in the skin. Arching my back, I turn in front of the mirror and push out my chest. Strange, I appear fragile but dangerous.

Perfume comes last. Pulling the trigger, I spritz my wrist, rub them together, and then, behind my ears. Lifting the hem of the thong, I spray once down there. The mist settles cool and burns. A pleasurable pain, I savor it. Rolling my shoulders, I let my hair fall forward, staring myself down.

This is the real me. No more hiding, no more playing it safe. When I run my fingers over my stomach, a tremor forms in my hands. Yes, I’m scared, but the good kind. The kind that makes your heart kick harder, that makes you want to leap off a building to see if you can fly.

Tossing my head this way and that, I shake out my hair. Pulling on a threadbare hoodie, his, faded and stretched, the cuffs chewed up with teeth marks. With nothing else underneath, I zip it halfway.

As the old house holds its breath, I check the clock. 11:44. More than likely, Daddy will be asleep soon, the house settling around his breathing. The truth is, I need him to see me as I am.