My Daughter is Sadie Hawkins

Copyright 2026 Robert Lubrican

Rights to use cover art purchased at istock.com

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Table of Contents

Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five | Chapter Six | Chapter Seven | Chapter Eight

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Foreword

I wrote a story titled "My Mom is Sadie Hawkins" and got feedback asking if I was going to write any other versions of that kind of story. This is one of the versions that came to my mind.

Bob

Chapter One

It was April of 2020. If you're older than ten you remember what the world was like in April of 2020. Everybody was scared to death that this new virus would kill them or the ones they loved. They would decide, much later, that what the government told the populace at that point in time was, depending on what they believed, well-intentioned, a product of panic, or outright bullshit and lies.

But we didn't know that in March of 2020. We lived in Cheyenne, Wyoming and all we knew was that we were locked in our homes and our normal lives were on the back burner for nobody knew how long. It didn't affect me all that much. I'm an architect and my job is to look at the plans of other architects to see if there are any flaws in them that could cause issues in the future … like, say, the building might collapse if there was even a tiny earthquake tremor. I could work at home because I could get all my work sent to me digitally, over the internet.

For Caitlin, though, it was an unmitigated disaster, on the level of Armageddon. Caitlin is my daughter, was sixteen, and had a bevy of girlfriends who she anticipated playing slow pitch softball with when summer got there. The team she was on was sponsored by The Savings and Loan and they had lost five girls to one thing or another. One moved. Three were going to graduate and start their lives as adults. Jenny Frisco had already become an adult by getting pregnant. She was due to deliver about the time the first official games would start . Replacements would be decided on the first practice days and the weather was getting mild enough that they could get on the field to do that.

Except now they couldn't.

And, what was worse, from Caitlin's perspective, was that school was closed, which meant the Sadie Hawkins dance had been canceled. Caitlin desperately wanted to ask Trevor Wilson to that dance. They had gone on one date, which went well, in her opinion, and he'd taken her out twice since then. According to Cat, he hadn't asked any other girls out, so she thought if she asked him to the dance she could "get something going." Those were her exact words. My father radar lit up like crazy.

"What do you mean, 'get something going'?" I asked, when she tearfully told me about her now ruined plans.

"Oh, Daddy," she moaned. "You know."

"No, I do not know," I said. "That phrase can mean different things. I just want to know what it means to you."

"Daddy, I'm a good girl."

"I know you are, Sweetheart," I said. "You've told me that after every date you went on. But you never said you wanted to get something going with any of those boys."

"I don’t want to talk about this," she said, turning her nose up.

"Were you planning on eventually having sex with this boy?" I asked, bluntly.

"I don't want to talk about this!" she barked.

"So, you were," I said. "Interesting," I added.

"Daddy! Do not put words in my mouth!" she yelled.

"What did you intend to let this Trevor person put in your mouth?"

Now, I know I shouldn't have said that. Caitlin is a sweet, innocent girl and I trusted her implicitly to make good decisions. We had talked about the birds and bees and I had told her several times that intimacy only worked well if the couple really knew each other. I had said all the things a parent is supposed to say, and not only about sex, but about most other things, too. We were buddies, as well as a father and daughter. I should have commiserated with her instead of poking her. Now she stared at me and put her hands on her hips.

"Well, Father, I did not intend to let Trevor fuck me and I did not intend to let him put his prick in my mouth, but I have now changed my mind. As soon as this fucking Covid shit is over I might even have his fucking baby!"

She stomped out of the room and I heard her bedroom door slam. It slammed hard enough I knew I should check for damage.

This is when I knew I was in serious trouble. I had never heard the words "fucking", "prick", or "shit" come out of her mouth, before; not once. I never cursed around her and I had taught her that using foul language only indicated a low IQ to the people who heard it. For her to machine gun me like that was unprecedented. She'd been mad at me before, but she never cursed. And, following the machine gunning, she'd also shot an artillery round at me by saying she'd let a boy she barely knew get her pregnant.

So there was a war going on and she was attacking.

I didn't want there to be a war going on.

I went to her bedroom door and tapped.

"I'm sorry, Baby," I said, through the door. "Come on out and we'll talk about it."

From inside her room I heard a sobbing scream.

"I do not want to talk to you right now!"

What could I do? I had poked the bear and now the bear was in its den, plotting to have me for dinner.

"Okay," I said. "I love you," I added. Even I knew how pointless it was to say that, under the circumstances. "I'm really sorry," I ended. Then I went to try and do some work.

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I couldn't work. I was too distracted. I tried to analyze why I had said such ridiculous things. It was like answering "Does this dress make me look fat?" with "Sure does." Even an idiot would know not to do that.

I decided to make a tuna and noodle casserole. I went to the kitchen and got the noodles in water on the stove. Then I got out the bread machine and started putting the ingredients in the tub. I paused in that to check the noodles and found a bunch of them stuck to the bottom of the pan. I had to scrape them off of the bottom with a metal spatula. When I went back to the bread making I had forgotten what step I was at. Had I added the sugar and salt? I couldn't remember. I added them again, just in case, and then put in the flour and yeast. I closed the lid and noticed the noodles were boiling over when I heard the hiss of steam being produced. I yanked the pan off of the burner and boiling water splashed over the edge, burning the back of my hand. I yelped and set the pan down on a cold burner. I turned off the hot burner and got some ice cubes out to put in a big bowl with water so I could soak my hand and get as much heat out of it as possible, to mitigate the damage.

I had just added some ice cubes when Caitlin sashayed into the kitchen like she didn't have a care in the world. She looked at me, came over and peered into the bowl, and said, "I don't even want to know."

"I burned myself," I explained. "This is sucking the heat out of the burn."

She looked at me.

"I guess, according to you, I do want to know," she said, flatly.

"Oh, sorry," I muttered.

She went to the stove next and found the noodles, which were almost liquid now, except for the part stuck to the bottom of the pan.

"I was trying to make tuna and noodles and got distracted by using the bread maker," I explained.

"I see," she said. She went to examine the bread maker, as if I must have screwed that up, too.

"And the bread machine is not turned on … why?"

Her voice wasn't mean. She wasn't trying to make me feel stupid. I was doing a fine job of that all by myself.

She came and picked up the bowl, which made me take my hand out, which dripped all over the place.

"Follow me," she ordered.

I did and she took me to my favorite chair, which had an oak side table by it that I had made myself, out of the wood from pallets that had been discarded. They don't build them that way anymore because oak is now scarce, so I treasure that table. She set the bowl on the table and gestured at the chair.

"I'll take care of supper," she said. "You sit there and suck all the heat out of your hand."

She turned and her ponytail swung and bounced saucily as she went back to the kitchen. Her hips, encased in form-fitting terrycloth shorts, moved up and down as she walked and I suddenly realized my little girl had a bubble butt under those shorts.

I sat and felt guilty for noticing how sexy my daughter's ass was.

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I dozed off, which put too much weight on the edge of the bowl, which tipped and dumped half a gallon of ice water in my lap. I made enough noise about it that she came to investigate. She got a towel and ignored me, concentrating, instead, on drying off the chair. She dried it so thoroughly, in fact, that she held up a silver disk.

"Huh. I found a quarter," she observed. "I'm rich!"

"Keep it," I snarled. "I have another one."

"Thanks!" she said, brightly. "By the time you put dry clothes on supper should be ready. Don't take too long. I don’t want the food to get cold."

The ponytail bounced again and her ass cheeks wobbled up and down again as she went back to the kitchen. I went to my room and put on a pair of running shorts. It was late enough in the day that I wasn't going anywhere. What I mean is I didn't feel like I needed to be in street clothes anymore. I used to run two miles a day as a nod to my Army service. I ran two miles lots of days while I did a four year hitch, learning that Army life wasn't for me.

I shrugged into a T shirt that said, "Be careful or you'll end up in my novel" and followed my nose to the source of something that made my mouth water.

She had made my favorite meal. There was meatloaf, fried potatoes, green beans, and fresh hot rolls. I looked at the bread machine and the tub was no longer in it, making bread. It was sitting on the counter. She had let it make dough and then turned that into hot rolls. They were a little flat, because she hadn't let the dough rise, and they were pretty dense for the same reason, but I decided to throw her a bone.

"I prefer my bread dense like this. I hate it when spreading the butter tears the bread."

When I saw the look on her face I realized that my "compliment" had just pointed out that she had done something wrong, instead. Today just wasn't my day.

"I'll just sit down and shut up, now," I said.

"That would be wise," she said.

The food was delicious. Caitlin is a great cook and having to stay in the house had given her time to go through her mother's old cook books, where she found written notations in the margins, and pieces of paper that had instructions on them, or reminders to the cook, or recipes, or whatever. I had found her one day just sitting and staring at one of these notes.

"Your mother wrote that," I said.

"I know," she said. She sniffed. "I miss her. I wish she was here."

"I miss her, too," I said. "I guess that's why I saved her cook books. When I looked at them it felt almost like she was in the bathroom, maybe taking a shower, or in the utility room, doing laundry, and she'd walk into the room any minute."

"Hard to do when you're confined to a casket, six feet under the ground." She said it with a bitter voice, as if it was her mother's fault that she had undetected breast cancer long enough that it metastasized into her lungs, liver, and kidneys. They tried chemo, with radiation planned for after the chemo knocked the free-floating cancer cells out, but all the chemo did was make her horribly sick until she died. And Caitlin had to watch her mother go through that when she was only eight.

She and I had grieved, but not together. My grief was for losing things Caitlin couldn't understand. Her grief was about losing what seemed like everything. That separation was unintended. Caitlin loved me, too, and she was the light of my life after Sherry was no longer in it. But Cat, as I nicknamed her, and I just didn't meld. We lived together and I took care of her, and we did love each other, but it seemed off, like my life was being lived on one radio frequency and hers on a frequency two numbers down. Life was kind of fuzzy, I guess.

That lasted for four years, at which point I heard a scream and sobbing and when I found her she was in the bathroom, standing and staring into the commode. I looked and the water was bloody.

"I'm dying, like Mommy," she bawled.

I took her in my arms, murmuring that she was fine and everything was normal, and didn't let her go until she said she understood what I had told her. She had stopped crying, by then, but seemed to be holding onto me for dear life. I realized this hug was different. Or maybe it felt different because I hadn't been giving my daughter hugs … or enough hugs … or something.

"So, we good?" I asked her as she finally stepped back.

"No. I don't have any of the supplies you talked about," she said. "One set of my panties is already stained and I don't know if blood will wash out of them. I don't want to ruin any of my other clothes."

Soon after my wife died, I had to deal with her stuff. I kept some of it, but I had thrown out my wife's personal things, like tampons and the hygiene spray she liked and all that. And when I thought of tampons I thought of something like that being stuffed up in my little girl's vagina, which seemed terrible. So I called Lois, my secretary, and explained my dilemma to her. Lois is a widow who had continued to work after her husband died, more to deal with the boredom than from any financial need. She was somewhere in her sixties, though I knew enough not to ask her how old she was. She had showed up in my office door one day and said, "Mr. Sanders says you need a personal assistant. I gather that's what they call secretaries, these days. I'm her."

Our relationship had been a little odd. She had worked as a secretary until she started having children, so she knew how to manage things. She was almost old enough to be my mother but she only acted like that when I did something stupid. Most of the time she was just good at her job, which made me look good at my job, and I thought we liked each other at least enough to call each other "friend." That's assuming senior citizens ever had "friends" who were thirty years younger than them. I mean that would be like calling Johnny your friend when he was five and you were thirty. You wouldn't have a ton of things in common.

But she didn't complain. She also didn't talk a lot about her own situation. She told me a little about her husband, and that she had gone back to work after a period of grieving to avoid becoming crazy as she stared at four walls. At one point I said, "You're pretty good at your job," and she replied, "Thank you. You're pretty good at your job, too."

I guess the right word to describe our relationship is "amiable." We were amiable.

When she answered I apologized for bothering her at home, like she had a lot going on, there. We were all still getting paid and she could still process my work before I turned it in, but she wasn't going anywhere, either. I had been worried she'd get Covid and die because she was "elderly" but so far, we had been lucky.

I just thought about what I said. I guess we were close enough that I thought of her troubles as "our" troubles. That was closer than I described.

Anyway, I apologized for disturbing her and then said, "I miss you."

"What do you need, Bob?" she asked, in that tone of voice I had heard so often. I had been leery about how I tasked her because I didn't want any HR complaints about me abusing her with work overload, or inappropriate taskings and all that. I'd hem and haw and wonder who I could get help from to do something and she'd say, "What do you need, Bob?" in that tone of voice that gave me permission to ask her to do something personal, like pick up my dry cleaning, or pick up Caitlin from school if I needed to work overtime. I apologized for that very thing one time and she said, "I only have one son and he has never procreated, so I think of her as my granddaughter, sometimes. I hope that's all right."

So she and Cat already had a relationship, which I hoped would grease the skids. I guess it greased the fuck out of the skids because she said, "Sit tight, I'll be there in ten minutes." She got a bear hug from Caitlin when I let her in and they sequestered themselves while Lois shared mysterious "woman knowledge" with my little girl. They also went shopping together after she tasked me with cleaning Cat's bloodstained panties. They wore masks when they went shopping, but not at home.

"Wet them liberally with hydrogen peroxide," she said through a cloth mask she had made with her sewing machine. "Then knead the cloth. Rinse with cold water and if needed, use some dish soap to do the same thing. Then put them in the washer on the cold water cycle. Don't use any hot water. If you do, that stain will never come out."

So, while my secretary taught my daughter how to pick out menstrual supplies, I fondled my little girl's panties. Except they weren't my little girl's panties. She was having periods, now, and that made her older than a little girl. Regardless, I was not excited about my job and I felt bad for not wanting to touch her soiled panties. The stain came almost completely out but I felt proud when I put them in the washer.

Have you ever washed just one item of clothing in the washing machine? If you did, did you feel like you were wasting precious water, soap, and electricity? If that item was a pair of a young woman's panties, did you try to think of other things you could put in the washer with the panties, so you weren't being wasteful? Did you then imagine menstrual blood from the panties migrating to the other clothing, like a new red item makes other clothes a little pink because you didn't think to wash it separately for its first formal status as laundry? And did you then feel guilty for thinking of your daughter's blood like it was tainted, or dirty, or a chemical weapon of some kind?

If you did do that and think of all those things, maybe we could form a support group for stupid fathers.

By the time they got home the wash cycle was almost finished and I told her I'd put them in the dryer when the washing machine turned off.

"We'll just air dry them," said Lois. "Thank you for helping."

Then she hugged Caitlin again and turned to face me.

"I hope this didn't give me the Covid, but I'm glad I could help. If I did catch Covid and die, then it will be up to you to bury me. My son is overseas and I don't have anybody else. Call me any time you have female issues."

Then she left.

My "personal assistant" accepted that tasking without complaint. She also never mentioned it at work. She offered to pick Caitlin up from school if needed, and they had their relationship, whatever it was, without me being around.

Anyway, that was in the ancient past. Lois still asked me how Caitlin was from time to time, but I took care of any icky stuff that came up.

Like using her first tampon. Lois had started her on pads, so I called Lois when Cat told me what she wanted to do. She was fourteen at the time. Lois was in Evanston, visiting family of some sort, so I had to figure this out by myself. When she said to just follow the instructions it occurred to me that the family she was visiting could bury her and do a better job of it than me. Thinking about that distracted me until Cat said, "Daddy?" I read the instructions aloud and she said, "You have to help me, Daddy," and that's how I ended up staring at my daughter's pussy lips as she sat on the commode with her legs spread wide. She acted like she did this on a regular basis and even reminded me to aim the applicator toward the back instead of straight up. I was surprised when the thing went in flawlessly. My half naked daughter hugged me and thanked me and that was that.

Then, when she was fifteen, she started asking questions about why she felt this or that in this or that part of her body when she stared at a cute boy. She also had some questions about things she heard at sleepovers and didn't want to look stupid by asking her peers what a "hummer" was.

So I had some fairly intimate conversations with my daughter over the next year. But all they were about were "interesting" boys and her feelings.

One night I could tell she had something on her mind but she didn’t tell me what it was. She couldn't sit still and got up and moved from one piece of furniture to another as we watched a re-run of M*A*S*H. I finally asked her what she was thinking about.

"I'm not sure I want to tell you," she said. "I'm afraid you'll yell and I'll be in trouble."

"Did you steal anything?" I asked.

"No."

"Did you murder anybody?"

"Daddy!"

"Did you sign a quit claim deed and transfer ownership of the house to one of your friends?"

"Daddy!" she yipped. "I just wanted to know if you'd be mad if I masturbate!"

It came out in a rush and she blushed and covered her mouth with one hand after she said it.

"Oh," I said, feeling very paternal emotions. I also felt a stab of pain as I missed Sherry. If my wife had been there, she could have fielded this particular question.

But it was my job, now, regardless of how difficult it seemed.

"No, Honey," I said, trying to make my voice sound normal. "I wouldn't be mad about it. It's a perfectly normal thing to do. In fact, I'd hazard to say everybody does it."

"Oh, good!" she gushed. "I was so worried you'd catch me and get mad and scream."

"Nope," I said. "Everybody does it."

"Do you?" she asked.

My throat seized up and I coughed.

"Um … yes, since your mother died I've done that a few times."

"Okay. Good. Thank you, Daddy. I love you."

I got a hug from the young woman I now knew was beginning to be at least sexually aware. The images in my mind were of Sherry, who used to lie in bed with her knees up and spread while she masturbated to tease me. I even watched her rub until she had an orgasm one time.

Trust me. These are not the images you want to have your daughter's face in.

So, here we were, and I needed to try to recover from being a stupid daddy.

I decided to broach the subject in a more reasonable and less accusatory fashion.

"If you want to talk about Trevor I'll be happy to do that in a calm, rational manner," I said.

A wary look came over her face.

"I don't want you to be angry with me," I said. "I don't feel good when you're mad at me for something I did or said. We've always been able to talk about … stuff … in the past. I'm sorry I barked at you. That was a father thing. No father wants his daughter to have sexual feelings toward some boy. Fathers want their daughters to be virgins when they go on their honeymoon. It's just in their bones. But I know that's silly and that I don't have any right to tell you what you can or can't do. You're almost a woman, now, and you are acting more and more like a grown woman every day. Some days I look at you and think Sherry has come back."

I stopped. I had poured out my heart to her. The ball was in her court. She could crush me, or she could talk to me.

"It's just that I never felt like this for any other boy," she said. "It's almost scary."

"Well, it has to happen to every woman, sooner or later," I said. "That paternal part of me wants you to only feel it after you're out of high school, but I recognize that for what it is and I have to tell myself that it's your business, and not mine."

"I don't want to do this alone," she moaned. "I don't know what to do. I don't know how to act. I know what he wants. He's told me what he wants us to do."

"But you're nervous about it?" I suggested.

"Very!" she rasped. "A lot of girls wait until prom, but that's a year away for me. Actually, it's a lifetime away from me if they don't find some way to cure people who get covid. I'll probably never get out of here. I'll probably become an old lady here. I'll never have a real boyfriend."

"It isn't that bad," I said. "I know these feelings can be strong. I understand Trevor's stance completely and I know how boys put pressure on girls. All I'll say is that you should be the driver of that car and Trevor needs to be the passenger. You'll get there some day and it won't be when you're twenty. They're working on a vaccine and I'm sure we won't be locked in here for more than a month or two."

"Daddy," she said, her voice strong. "We've already been locked in here for three months. I'm taking classes online and if that works they'll probably keep doing that after Covid is all over. It's cheaper and they have more control over what the students hear. They can censor any class they want to. I may not get to go to any kind of dance until I am twenty, and I don't think twenty-year-olds have dances."

"The best medical minds are working on this," I said. "I'm positive they already have some kind of vaccine in testing."

"The TV makes it sound like people are dying right and left," she said. "I mean thousands of people die every day, if the news is true. But I'm not sure any of it is true."

"Why?" I asked.

"Have you heard any sirens since we've been locked in? I haven't. If that many people are dying every day at least a few of them would be from around here. But there are no sirens. I've been listening for them and they're just not there."

"Well, we can't do anything about that. I'm really sorry that you can't go to the dance. I'm sure Trevor is disappointed, too. He'd be all excited about getting in your … about having … um … fun after the dance. I think I'll just shut up, now."

She actually smiled at me. She also got up and came over and made me scoot back so she could sit on my lap. She straddled me and put her hands on my shoulders.

"I love you," she said. "I know I get upset with you sometimes, but I know everything you do is to protect me and keep me safe."

"I try," I said, looking into her green eyes. Involuntarily I let my gaze drop to her chest. She was wearing a T shirt and I had no trouble at all seeing where her nipples were.

You readers are going to eventually think I'm a pervert, but something drives each pervert to step over that line the very first time. His perverted-ness happens to him without warning. I'm not excusing anybody's behavior. I'm just trying to get you to understand the stimulus that would eventually drive me to step over a line. So this is a good place to describe my daughter.

She's sixteen but has a body I'd expect to see on a college girl. She's five-five and she's got round lines everywhere. There are round lines around her breasts. There are round lines around her hips. Between those are round lines that bend inward, where her waist is. Softball has built her body with muscles that are gently rounded along her arms and legs. She has green eyes, and I mean vividly green. In the right light they look like she could shoot green rays out of them. The only thing that looks straight on her is her hair, when she has it down. That hair is a burnished brunette, with a mixture of deeply brown and reddish blond as highlights. It has grown down to the middle of her back and it is usually in a ponytail that is made up of round lines. When she puts it up in a bun of some kind that ball is round and it exposes the lovely bent lines of the neck that attaches her head to her upper torso. I have only seen one other woman who was as beautiful and sexy and just vividly female as my daughter. That woman was her mother. Sherry wasn't as muscular as her daughter had become, but she had passed down to Caitlin her face and hair and eyes.

To put it bluntly, Caitlin is what a person from my dad's generation would call a sexpot. And what made her even more desirable was that she had no idea how gorgeous she really was. She talked about her flaws but nobody else would ever notice them.

"Daddy?" she said. I looked up at her eyes immediately.

"Do you think my breasts are pretty?"

My throat went dry. My answer was delivered only ten or so decibels above a whisper.

"I'm not supposed to think about that," I rasped.

"I know all that, but you look at them a lot and it's either because they're ugly or pretty."

"Pretty!" I gasped.

"Calm down," she said. "This is no worse than when we talked about me masturbating. All the boys at school look at them. Some of the teachers even do it. What I'm curious about is what y