Tales from the Sexpocalypse: Daddy's Girls

Demi knocked on her younger sister's bedroom door, then waited, listening.

“Okay, guys. That’s all we have time for. Don’t forget to hit that donate button to send me some love. Byyyeee~!”

A minute passed before the lock clicked, and Gracie stuck her head out. A pair of neon pink cat-eared headphones hung around her neck.

“This better be good. It’s four o’clock. I was pulling in decent numbers.”

Two-thirty to four-thirty were Gracie’s ‘Working Hours.’ Part of a scheme to fleece Continental weebs of their Euros while keeping her burgeoning streamer career on the down-low from Dad.

She had the looks and the confidence for the so-called job, Demi had to admit. Her barely eighteen-year-old sister was almost as brash as she was stunning. Only a year apart in age, they shared their wayward mother’s inherent beauty: wavy chestnut tresses, effortlessly slim figures, perfect Slavic bone structure and full, perky breasts.

But where Gracie flaunted her jaw-dropping body in outlandishly scanty outfits that had the male population sweating bullets, Demi was more conservative in every regard.

She’d received a letter of acceptance from Dartmouth, didn’t own a skirt that ended above the knee, and would never ever consider working as a… camgirl.

“Dad called; he’s left the office early. Sounded upset.” Demi glanced meaningfully at her younger sister's rainbow cami top and tiny booty shorts. “Thought you’d want to, I dunno, put some clothes on?”

The outfit looked like lingerie a unicorn farted out.

“We’re not having this argument again, sis.” Gracie sighed, exasperated. “Wearing whatever I want and findomming incel cash piggies is pure female empowerment. Protecting your modesty is an outdated notion. We live in the twenty-first century, not a convent.”

“You look like a sex worker.” Demi avoided more damning terms. She wouldn’t demean herself with base language.

“I’m flirting and flashing a little skin, not jamming a dildo up my ass. There’s a major difference.”

“Dad called from the car. He’ll be home in home in ten.” Demi shrugged innocently.

She smirked when Gracie swore and shut the door in her face.

As the older sibling, Demi shouldered a lot of responsibility after their mother left.

There’d been no preamble to her abrupt departure. No fights or accusations of infidelity. Demi supposed two people had to be awake in the same room for any of that. Her Dad; Jack, put in long hours at the legal firm trying to make junior partner, while Mom was the quintessential social butterfly.

They’d seemed like the model family until the day she dropped them at high school, then kept driving. She’d emptied the savings account before sending Dad a goodbye message that he refused to talk about.

“She didn’t want this life. Never wanted the responsibility,” was the most he ever said on the matter. Tears were in his eyes and a pint of bourbon in his stomach that night.

Their mother was gorgeous, reportedly a party girl in her youth, but nothing excused abandoning Jack and her children.

Those days had been dark, but they pulled through as a family. Jack cut back his work hours, and Demi donned the mantle of the dutiful daughter. She learned to cook, kept house, and studied hard.

Demi was proud of all they accomplished.

Which was why she fretted about the trajectory Gracie was on.

Their father was a good man, and the foolish girl was lying to him.

She broke from her musing when Jack’s Lincoln town car screeched into the driveway of their modest suburban home, nearly swiping the letterbox.

She watched from the kitchen window as he practically fell out the driver's door. Her father was usually a calm, unflappable rock of a man. After the near meltdown, he quit drinking and joined a gym, lost weight, and earned that promotion through merit.

The person hauling shopping bags out of the trunk looked disheveled–on the verge of panic. Demi’s stomach dropped.

She reached the front entrance just as it burst open. Jack stumbled in, scattering boxes of cereal and tinned goods over the threshold.

“Lock the doors, close the windows!” He gasped, breathless. “Shit, shit, shit! I can’t believe we’re doing this again!”

He looked ready to collapse, brown hair tangled and suit rumpled. His ragged appearance and foul language rang alarm bells for Demi who hurried to his side.

“No, get back! Don’t touch me.” Jack recoiled from her outstretched hand. “Need to bathe in sanitizer first. Don’t know if it’s airborne yet. Gotta keep you girls safe.”

“Dad, you’re scaring me.” Demi whimpered, “What’s going on?”

“We’re going into lockdown… again. Fuck!”

“The CDC has announced the detection of a new strain of H5N1, better known as bird flu, in human population centers. These developments happened against a background of an ongoing avian influenza A epizootic.”

Seated on the couch, Demi watched the news with rising dread. The anchor duo wore face shields and rubber gloves, and perspex dividers separated them.

It was happening again. She gripped Gracie’s hand. The reporters looked tired, as though the ill news sapped their spirit. Her sister vibrated in excitement, though, sporting a toothy grin.

“These outbreaks in poultry, dairy cows, and other animals have caused sporadic human infections–”

“Turn that off,” Jack said, entering the living room wearing a towel. He’d showered and scrubbed himself raw. “We've done this before and don’t need the added stress.”

The television winked off at the press of a button. Both girls shifted to face their father. His muscular chest and stomach were tomato-red from the hot water. He’d clearly put in the hard yards at the gym.

Some of the soccer moms back in high school had noticed.

Their predatory stares and appreciative comments would make a snowman blush.

“Alright, let’s check in. How are we feeling, gang?” He asked, expression rich with concern.

He was such a great Dad. Dropping everything to rush home. Always sensitive and supportive of the family.

“This is AWESOME!!” Gracie cheered, appalling Demi. “The last epidemic pushed streamer popularity through the roof. Dragged it into the spotlight. This is my big chance!”

“It also killed people and hamstrung the economy.” Demi glared at her in disbelief. “Have a heart, sis.”

“Are you talking about the yoga videos you post online?” Jack asked, confused. “I’m glad you're not upset, sweetie, but we must focus on the larger picture.”

Yoga videos.

The lie Gracie had fed their father when purchasing the filming setup. She even dressed the part at home. Shamelessly parading about in skin-tight leggings and mid-riff baring sports bras.

“Sorry, Daddy.” She replied sweetly. “I’m listening.”

“How about you, honey?” Jack looked at Demi. “Holding up okay?”

“Fine, I guess.” She actually felt a tad warm, as though the lack of fresh air was stifling. Her gaze kept drifting to his naked chest and broad shoulders. “Not thrilled about the next couple of weeks.”

“None of us are.” Jack fanned himself. Perspiration beaded on his skin. “Phew! Let’s stow away the supplies and prepare to hunker down. We will get through this together, gang.”

He was such a good and caring man.

“Why did he buy so much bog roll? Is diarrhea a symptom, you think?” Gracie asked, hoisting her third twenty-four-pack of toilet paper.

“Panic buying, most likely.” Demi answered. “It’s a control thing and probably why we have all these dry goods.”

She gestured at bulk packages of instant noodles, pasta and rice piled on the kitchen counter.

Non-perishables were fine, but their diet would be decidedly bland once they ran out of fresh ingredients and seasonings.

Demi considered the tinned fruit and vegetables. There was some potential there if she got creative.

A droplet of sweat ran down her cheek.

“Man, would it kill us to crack a window?” Gracie asked. Her gray tank top was blotted with damp spots. She scoffed at Demi’s stricken expression. “Joking. I’m joking, jeez. But seriously, it’s humid in here. I’m sweating like a hooker in church.”

“You’ve never been to church.” Demi sniffed. “But yeah, I’ll ask Dad to lower the thermostat. We should get comfortable if we’re going to ride out this storm.”

They were both shiny. Their pale flesh slick with moisture. Gracie seemed to tolerate the warmth better in her skimpy activewear. It doubtlessly wicked away sweat and shed heat by design.

Demi’s long-sleeved smock and capri pants did the opposite. She was practically marinating in a soup of her own juices.

“Cool, he’s in his room. Isolating or whatever.” Her sister’s phone beeped. “Heyo, gotta go! Got a whale on the hook. Big spender from Prague. Laters!”

Then she was gone, flouncing up the stairs, her chestnut hair and pert rear swaying.

Thanks for reading the first instalment of this silly story. Let me know if you enjoyed it by hitting the like icon, commenting, or even buying me a coffee. Caffeine donors get early access to my latest smut weeks in advance, and I am grateful. Y'all are great!