“Daddy, you’re so pretty!”
This my daughter, Princess, exclaimed to me this evening as I was donning my requisite work finery. Mrs. AP sat on the bed, grinning ear to ear as she wholeheartedly agreed. Mrs. AP had been discussing this very topic with me very recently, noting that the specific word “pretty” was used in description of me by an overwhelming majority of people seeking some method of delivering the opinion of my looks. I smiled and chuckled, absolutely unwilling to disagree with the angelic face of Princess as she grinned up at me. I tousled her hair and hugged her close, basking in the warmth that can only come from the glow of a happy and loving child.
What prompted this exposition from her? Granted, I had just come from the shower, wherein I trimmed and shaved face, chest, arms, underarms, and groin. That fact notwithstanding, by the time Princess came running into the room to embrace me I was already clad in underpants, socks, and work trousers and was in process of applying deodorant; hardly a position inherently imbued with beauty or grace, I’m sure. Nevertheless, Princess is not prone to falsehoods nor false modesty, much less false praise. When she speaks truth issues forth from her in a way that would embarrass the most ardent of monks. Thus I wondered, in that moment, what it is about me that brings forth these claims of me being pretty?
I walked into the room and stopped in my tracks. It couldn’t be helped. Moving wasn’t an option. Neither was speech. All I could do in that moment was stand. Call me hypnotized, call me bewitched, call my paralyzed, but whatever I was it prevented any conscious thought or action. It couldn’t be helped. In that moment I was reduced to my primal self, stunned, struck, and nothing more than a reactionary creature. My eyes were intent, unwavering. My cock was stirring, lifting. Wanting. It couldn’t be helped. There, on the bed, holding my attention was the most wonderful sight I’d ever seen. The sight that never fails to cause thing to tighten down low, my breath to catch in my throat, words to die soundlessly upon my lips, and my very brain to forget how to function. It couldn’t be helped. Mrs. AP was on the bed, naked from the waist down. Laying there on her stomach. Swaying her hips. It couldn’t be helped.