Excerpt for Daddy Makes Me His Midnight Snack by , available in its entirety at Smashwords

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Copyright 2016 Adrian Amos

Smashwords Edition


Daddy Makes Me His Midnight Snack

Part of the “Horny House” Series

By Adrian Amos

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Author's note: All characters depicted in this work of fiction are 18 years of age or older.

The fridge has never looked so empty in my life.

So many dang condiments, but no actual food. I can make a slurry of ketchup, mustard, and mayo, but rather than quell my rumbling stomach and put me to sleep, I'd probably vomit and stare dead-eyed into space.

Sorry, it's just insomnia makes me itchy and irritated.

For the past few days—maybe a week actually—I've been stuck in a rut of trying to go to sleep but getting so fidgety that I get up and walk the house for hours, finally draining myself around three or four in the morning.

It's something that's been happening on and off for the past year. I think it has to do with coming home every so often and the reoccurring stress of having to return to college looming over me. I come home to relax, but it's like a dread so subtle that it eats away at me silently during the day and screams me awake at night.

I'm not going to have a breakdown or anything like that, but I'd love to get some dang sleep once in a while, you know?

I've circled around to this fridge a half a dozen times in the past few hours, checking if the appliance has magically spawned some real food since the last time I looked. Of course, it hasn't, but my nervous nature wants me doing something to distract me from my anxiety.

I'm lucky my mom and dad are light sleepers. They haven't woken once since I've been home, and I can't say I haven't made a serious ruckus trying to keep myself busy. But they're like the dead in their bedroom. I guess when you get older, your body starts preparing for that eternal dirt nap...

Geez, my rattled mind is thinking some dark stuff. I have to focus sometimes when I'm up late at night to prevent myself from thinking of the weirdest shit at the most inappropriate times.

Finally, on the seventh look through the refrigerator, I discover some meats and cheese to make a sandwich.

I know, I know. How the heck did I miss that the other six times? I guess I just wasn't looking as hard as I should have been, enveloped in brain fog I'd been cultivating the past few days.

Grabbing the bread, I turn to the island counter top and go to work assembling my shoddily constructed sandwich, slapping some muenster cheese between salami and turkey, coated in a heavy spread of mayo. When I pick the sandwich up to my mouth, I notice my father standing in the doorway of the kitchen.

“Oh my gosh!” I cry out, the fright of seeing someone up this late for the first time sends a shattering pulse through my body. My heart skips, causing my chest to ache for a few seconds.

I freeze in place as I stare at him: He's wearing a gray t-shirt and boxers, having just gotten up from bed. But his eyes are focused a little lower down on me. When I follow his gaze, my fright turns to surprise, having completely forgotten the way I'm dressed.

Or, barely dressed, that is.

Like I said, no one's gotten up one time while I've been wandering this house like a ghoul. So I took it upon myself to be a little more comfortable, ditching my shirt and shorts. Without them, I'm dressed in only my white cotton panties and bra, which hug my thin frame and leave nothing to the imagination.

I plop the sandwich down and place my hands over my chest, covering what ample cleavage I can.

“Uh, sorry, Daddy,” I stutter, “I didn't think anyone would be up. Did I wake you?”

Daddy doesn't answer, his half-closed eyes fixated around my stomach, which is visible above the island. I'd probably be way more mortified of how I looked if the island wasn't offering me cover below my waist.

I wait a moment, but he doesn't move and doesn't answer. I swallow, my mouth becoming dry. “Daddy, will you stop staring,” I softly complain, “It makes me uncomfortable.”

But Daddy doesn't really move, only swaying in place.

“Daddy?” I try to get his attention, but he doesn't respond.

And then it hits me, something I never thought I'd ever see in my life. I walk around the island and approach Daddy. When I prod his muscular arm with my fingers, Daddy only tilts backwards before rocking back to his feet.

“Are you sleepwalking?”

He doesn't respond, as I assumed he wouldn't. It was a question directed more to my own wonderment than anything else. I tilt my head to get a good look at his eyes, which aren't following me in the least bit. I wave my hand in front of him, and then I giggle to myself.

Daddy mumbles something, but it's so quiet that I can't make it out.

“What's that?”

He doesn't respond, but every so often he mumbles again, no clearer than before.

Even if I wasn't incredibly sleep deprived, this has to be the funniest thing I've seen. I poke him again for good measure, retreating quickly in case he springs awake.

He doesn't, seemingly frozen in time the moment he walked into the kitchen.

Why did he stop, anyway? Hmm, I do remember seeing something about not waking a sleepwalker. It could be dangerous, like it causes them to panic when they wake up and don't know where they are or their heart can stop or something. I don't know if that's actually true or not, but...

Maybe it's better if I don't mess with him, just in case.

But I don't move. I only watch as Daddy's lifeless body teeters on his unstable balance. Something inside me is pulling me toward him when I just said I should walk away. I don't know what it is...

Is it the chance to do something naughty to him?

No, no. I shake my head. That's that darkness from brain fog talking again. Do something naughty? What's wrong with me? The man is experiencing something strange here. It'd be so wrong to do something to him now, when he's so defenseless.

And what if it makes his heart stop or whatever? That'd be incredibly messed up, even if it sounds physically impossible.

There is the one thing I like about my dad, though. It's not like I get to be around him a lot, what with being off at school, but when I am, I do take a peek every so often when he takes his shirt off.

It's totally innocent, I swear!

He just has a killer bod. Like, a six pack and smoking pecs. I've just never seen a body like his before, and the reality is, I think it's really hot.

It's weird, I know, but I think it's kind of turned me on to the point where I think the next boyfriend I have has to have a killer body too.

And... well, I've never touched one before either. I've always wondered what solid muscle feels like.

As much as I should walk away, the urge to delve deeper is too strong to ignore.

I glance out of the kitchen and around the corner, just to make sure no one's following him around or wondering where he ran off to. If I'm going to be weird about this, the last thing I need is someone seeing me be weird.

When the coast is clear, I return to Daddy, wringing my hands together. My motions are slow and delicate, until I remember that I was just poking him a minute ago and he didn't stir at all.

I reach down and pull Daddy's shirt up, exposing his muscular frame. Daddy mumbles again and I freeze. Something incoherent, which dies down to silence once more.

His body looks even better this close up and in this dark lighting, giving it a stark and intimidating presence. I place my finger tips along the contours of his abs, digging in and touching the crevasses that separate them.

I've never felt something so hard in my life! I mean, I definitely have, but the fact that it's connected to a man's body gives it a sense of strength that I didn't think was possible.

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