The Night Mom Wasn’t Home

When I was 14 years old, my whole world was turned upside-down. I was your typical tomboy, always dressing in t-shirts and cutoff jeans that hid every curve I was beginning to develop. My loose brown hair was kept tied up in a ponytail everyday, and I didn’t own a pair of heels. I had never kissed a boy, or even held-hands with one for that matter, although part of me was very curious. So at night, when I was sure my mother and father were asleep, I would run my hands over the sensitive parts of my body, touching my nipples and rubbing my clit. I would let out a low moan, covering my face with a pillow so my parents wouldn’t hear me in the next room. It felt so good, and I felt myself getting wet between my legs, but I got the feeling of having to pee everytime, so I would stop touching myself and tried to go to bed.

My parents were the typical American family. Dad worked writing for the local paper and mom owned her own bakery. Every day, she would cook pancakes or eggs for breakfast, give dad a peck on the lips, and head out the door. Then dad would ask me what might be going on in school that day, and we would talk for a few minutes about how the day would go. Dad would finish his breakfast, give me a peck on the cheek, and then leave. But on this particular day, at breakfast dad had looked at me from over his paper, and said,
“Cali, I heard a strange noise coming from your room last night, was something wrong?” He gave me a stern look, and I nearly choked on my toast. I figgeted in my seat.

“Uh, no dad, I just got a, um, really bad leg cramp.” He looked at me for what seemed like an hour, deciding something which registered in his eyes.

“Drink more water kiddo.” He replied, and got up to leave for work. He bent down to give me a peck on the cheek, but instead, kissed me quickly on the lips, like he did with mom.

“Dad! Gross!” I said. He smiled, and replied “Sorry kiddo, wasn’t looking,” he turned and grabbed his suitcase.