Prompt: The Sleepover: My Best Friend’s Dad

Note: I realize it’s gauche or whatever to like your own stuff, but I really think I knocked this one out of the park. Parts of it ended up in other places, but I’m sure I’ll come back to this and make it a whole story. 

It happens every night.

Every night.

My best friend Charlotte and I will go up to bed. She’ll get in her bed and I’ll get in my sleeping bag. Sleep.

Around 1 AM, the creek of steps.

And then, the door across the hall.

A few minutes after that, the screaming starts. The pounding.

The grunting.

Oh my God, the grunting. Like a werewolf lifting an anvil.

“Dad’s a freak,” Charlotte says, when I wake her up. “He needs it like every night, and probably more when we’re at school.”

She thinks it’s funny. She goes immediately back to sleep.

I lay there listening. I don’t want to get wet, but I do.

In the morning, Charlotte’s dad makes breakfast. Her mom sleeps until noon.

Her dad is hairy with a powerful chest and big shoulders like an oil rigger. He’s shirtless as he fries bacon.

I’m a vegetarian. He makes me pancakes even though I tell him I’m good with cereal.

“You’re tiny,” he says, if I ask him about it. “You’re as bad as Charlotte.”

He won’t leave until after I start eating. The pancakes are always spectacular.

“Why is he going back to bed after breakfast?” I ask, as Charlotte and I get our stuff together for school.

“Why do you think?” she laughs. “Ugh.”

She catches on to my crush somewhere around lunch.

“You know he walks around naked when you’re not around,” she says, taunting me. Her locker is right next to mine.

“Shut up!”

“He’s not as long as Jackson Ellis, but he’s as thick as a soda can,” she says, laughing. Jackson is a boy we both dated last year. His penis is terrifyingly long. He was an asshole.

“Gross, Charlotte, that’s your dad!”

She shrugs. “I’m not the one who blushes when he talks to me,” she says.

I slam my locker closed and run to my next class.

That night Charlotte snickers as she rolls herself up in blankets like a burrito. “I told dad you complained about the noise,” she says, “so you can stop staring at their door with that look on your face. You’re safe to sleep.”

She falls asleep in seconds. I hate this about her. Charlotte is never tired.

She snores with a high-pitched sound, the way I imagine a Smurf would snore.

At 1AM, I hear the creek of steps.

A shadow moves under the door.

It pauses.

It passes.

This is the loudest night of them all, with Charlotte’s mom audibly asking “what’s gotten into you, Charlie?” and a roar as he cums that shakes the window.

Charlotte snores the whole time, in her blanket burrito.

Her dad goes to the bathroom at 2:30 in the morning, and pisses with the door open. I know the door is open because it’s so loud. Like a racehorse.

The next morning he’s completely normal. He cooks breakfast while Charlotte’s mom sleeps. He makes me pancakes and fries bacon and eggs for himself.

When he pours my orange juice, I get the feeling that he’s looking down my PJ shirt. My nipples stiffen when I have this thought, but I don’t look up or move so he can’t see.

He goes upstairs after breakfast three steps at a time. I imagine I can see the enormous chubby flop of his penis in his shorts.

He’s as big as rolled-up tube socks.

“Any better last night, Amy?” Charlotte asks.

“Yeah,” I say, caught off guard. “It’s fine now.”

She rolls her eyes. “You’re so gross,” she says. “You need a boyfriend.”

I linger as she walks to the bus. I let myself creep up 4 stairs before I chicken out.

I think I hear sounds of something, but I’m not sure.

I’m going to go out into the hallway tonight.

The house is old. There’s plenty of space between the jam and the bottom of the door. It’s easy to see into rooms if you get down on the floor and peer inside.

I’m going to wait around the corner and watch him go to the bathroom.

I’m going to see him naked.

I don’t masturbate, not usually, but when I have this plan I touch myself. I have what I think is an orgasm in the bathroom, thinking about my best friend’s parents having sex. I imagine her dad’s incredibly thick penis must hanging in front of my face at breakfast, the way it must in front of Charlotte’s when I’m not around.

I imagine him sinking it into his wife’s soft not-exactly-chubby stomach. Wrapping her tits around it.

Cumming all over me.

It’s the thought of him ejaculating in my face that makes me cry out, that fills me with a cold goosbumpy tickle that sparkles all the way up from my toes.

I go back to class feeling incredibly ashamed. I think I smell like sex all day, although no one says anything.

“You’ve been weird all day,” Charlotte says, as we go to bed.

I’m ready for this one.

“Last night was the first time in weeks that I got any sleep,” I say.

She makes a face. “Ew. You should have said something earlier,” she says.

I shrug. “Would you?”

She considers this. “I guess not. But I’ve never met your dad.”

Neither have I, I think.

“Night, Charlotte.”

“Night, Amy.”

It takes her 11 seconds to start snoring.

I turn red, and I feel ashamed while I’m doing it, but I take off my panties and fold them under my pillow. Folding them makes it feel less disgusting somehow.

I look in the mirror on the back of Charlotte’s door and make sure my hair is good. I put a little bit of makeup on. Just a little.

I put perfume between my breasts, which I read about in a magazine once and seems like the right thing to do.

I sit on crossed legs and stare under the door of Charlotte’s room, listening to her rest.

The clock on her nightstand is big and red and older than both of us put together. It’s the kind of clock that you keep for your entire life. That you can’t sleep without.

It’s the size of a large soda can.

And it makes me wet.

The time on the face is 12:59.

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