Continue to part 1..................
"A guy you knew at school," I repeated. "And you feel OK . . . showing yourself to him like that?"
She looked at me and said nothing right away. She held her eyes steadily on mine, but her body shifted in the chair and I noticed, again, the movement of her breasts under the shirt. I felt a twinge between my legs, under my pants, and guilt wracked my conscience, again.
"Are you trying to shame me, Dad?"
"No!" I said. "It's not like that. I'm concerned about you. Do you know if you can trust him? What if . . . what if he made a copy of you . . . doing that . . . and showed it to others? To his friends?"
Laurie said nothing to me in response right away. She looked away from me, eyes flittering from one part of the room to another but not resting on mine, not right away. At last, though, her eyes locked on mine, as though she'd made up her mind about something.
"Dad," she said. "He did show them to his friends."
A storm of fury rose inside me.
"That scumbag!" I said. "Laurie, you have rights. You can -"
"No, Dad," she said, raising a hand in front of my face. "He showed them because I told him it was OK. I wanted him to."
I shook my head, confused.
"What?" I asked in a stammer. "What do you mean?"
"When I was . . . putting on the show for him, I was teasing him. About how much his friends would like to see me like this and if he liked it. And he asked if could show them. And I said 'yes.'"
"Why . . . why would you say that?" To say I did not understand the words coming out of her mouth would be an understatement.
"Because I liked it," she said, her voice growing firmer. "I like to show off. I've done the same thing other times. With other guys. And girls, even."
The same thing? Other times? Guys and girls? My brain was on overload.
I tried to find the words to reply, but they escaped me. Laurie stared at me, obviously wanting a reply. After a long delay, with me not saying anything, she finally did.
"What do you think about that, Dad?"
"Laurie," I said at last, "why are you telling me this?"
"Telling you what?" she replied. "The truth? I'm telling you because you're my Dad. We've been marooned in this house for a month. I thought it would be nice to be honest with you. Sorry if it's, like, hard to hear."
"It's not hard to hear," I said quickly. "OK, maybe it is. It's kind of hard to hear about you showing yourself . . . like that . . . to a lot of guys. I know how guys are. I was a guy once. Still am. I wouldn't trust them. Don't you worry -"
"What?" She interrupted me.
"About your reputation," I said, uncomfortable talking about it and visualizing my daughter exposing herself. "They could take photos of you and share them with their friends. You don't know where they'll end up."
"Yeah," she said. "That's true. I've thought about it. It's a risk. But it's a risk I decided I wanted to take. My boyfriend - his name is Sasha - had three roommates in an apartment. And he liked . . . showing me off. So, when I visited, I'd walk around the apartment, not wearing much - usually just a little crop top and panties. And I liked it. I'm sorry if this is a shock for you, but I did."
My head spun with images of Laurie cavorting through an apartment with four horny college boys, in just her underwear. The image was both disturbing and - I had to admit it - a little arousing. I tried to push the images down and out of my mind, but without success. I couldn't find the words to respond to her.
"Are you ashamed of me?" she asked, breaking a long silence.
"No, no, sweetie. It's not like that. You're an adult. And I'm not a prude. But I'm your Dad. I'm concerned about you. I don't want to see you hurt or taken advantage of."
She smiled and stood up from her chair and crossed the distance between us, planting a quick, sweet kiss on my forehead. Then she returned to her chair.
"You're a great Dad," she said. "I guess that's why I wanted to tell you. I feel like I can trust you. Like I'm safe with you."
I returned a wan, awkward smile to her.
"Well, thanks. I'm glad you feel that way. You can always trust me."
"So," she said, "you don't think less of me that I'm, kind of, an exhibitionist? That I like walking around with not a lot on - sometimes in front of people?"
"Laurie, it's not my decision to make. It's yours, and - "
I stopped when she cocked her head and opened her eyes wide, like she was expecting a different answer.
"OK, OK," I said. "It's a little weird for me to adjust to. But no, I don't think less of you. You're an adult and if you like spending your time in panties or whatever that's your choice."
The words felt strange when they left my mouth. But Laurie looked satisfied with my answer. A broad grin and flashing eyes lit up her face.
"Thanks, Dad," she said.
She stood up and twirled and walked away. Maybe I wasn't thinking straight, but it sure looked like she deliberately swayed her pert little butt at me as she left the room.
Alone again, I stewed in my thoughts, still bored, still horny, and agitated with thoughts of my sweet daughter in various stages of undress.
Eventually, I got up from my chair, desperately needing something to do to take my mind off the events of day. I decided to clean the garage.
There wouldn't be much to clean. I was one of those guys that kept a tidy, orderly garage. So, when I entered it from the laundry room, I noticed immediately that something was out of place: my wrench, rather than being in the wrench drawer where it belonged, lay in the middle of my work bench.
I picked it up, prepared to put it in the drawer.
But I stopped when I recalled that it was the wrench, I had seen Laurie inserting into her pussy. She had used my favourite wrench as a sex toy.
God help me, I held the end of the wrench up to my nose.
I inhaled. It had been a long time since I had enjoyed the scent of a woman's pussy, but there was no mistaking it now. The faint and fading tangy scent of my daughter Laurie wafted up from the rubber casing over the handle of the heavy tool. It tickled my nostrils and I closed my eyes and savoured it.
I shook my head. What kind of father was I?
I pulled some cleaning wipes from a cabinet shelf and cleaned off the wrench. Then I put it away. For the next half hour, I puttered around the garage, reorganizing things to give myself something - anything - to take my mind off my exhibitionist daughter.
* * * *
Days passed, and the quarantine continued. Laurie and I remained locked down in the house. We settled into a steady, dull routine, trying to maintain our sanity while the world outside, broadcast to us through our TVs, computers, and smart phones, seemed to teeter on the brink of insanity and collapse.
For days, we said nothing about what I'd seen Laurie do or about the conversation that followed. I worked, and Laurie attended classes - both of us, remotely.
But that's not to say nothing changed. It did. I became aware of Laurie in a way I hadn't before. She wasn't just my daughter; she was a grown woman - and a very attractive grown woman. I grew antsy and agitated as the days and hours and minutes ticked past and the prospect of being with a live, breathing woman seemed like a mirage in the desert that never grew closer. The only woman around me was Laurie. I couldn't help but notice her.
It didn't help, either, that after our conversation Laurie 's standard of dress grew looser and skimpier. April turned to May, temperatures climbed, and Laurie seemed to show more skin every day. In the morning I'd be making coffee and hear Laurie 's soft bare-foot fall, and she'd turn the corner into the kitchen wearing short shorts and a cropped top. She seldom wore a bra. Later in the day she'd keep wearing the short shorts or switch into miniskirts, and perhaps replace the cropped tops with thread-bare tees or tank tops. I don't think her legs were ever covered, and they were beautiful legs - long, shapely, lightly muscled from daily sessions of yoga and running. When she ran, she wore compression shorts that barely concealed her bottom and a tight sport bra that pushed her youthful breasts up and out. When finished with her run she'd come back to the house, a sheen of sweat over her barely covered body, and she'd linger close by me in the kitchen while slowly nursing a Gatorade.