Winner Winner

Casey pulled the chicken out of the oven. The deep warm aroma of roasted poultry and potatoes calmed him somewhat. Such a distinctly domestic smell made him feel centered and certain. He was where he was supposed to be. That thought could almost replace the one that seemed burned into his vision, of his daughter in her room, laying there half naked and glistening, a pair of concerningly familiar flamingo pink panties on her head. Not to mention the pile of dirty shirts and pairs of underwear and socks all over the floor!

She had never been the most tidy of girls, but over the years Casey’s ability to discipline his daughter had grown more and more lax. It was rather hard to properly intimidate a child who towered over you, and there were only so many times he could order her to clean her room before he broke down and just did it himself. He had given it a week and a half this time, and would have been holding strong if not for the shocking experience just now… He shook his head and made to set the table, hoping that might help reverse the shameful flow of blood to his traitorous genitals.

Daphne splashed some water on her face before heading downstairs. It was by no means even close to a ‘wash’, which she sorely needed, but she decided she wanted to fill her rumbling tummy before taking a quick shower… and then would probably jill off some more before bed. She pulled her dark hair back again, squeezing it into a short ponytail, rather liking the style now since she was content to remain too lazy to go get it cut. Then she checked her sparkling teeth in the mirror, as if trying on a grin. The girl sighed, face falling.

She padded down the stairs, barefoot and bare legged. She had towelled off her crotch and put on her last clean pair of underwear, a red and blue striped piece that hugged a bit tighter these days, and felt like that she was clothed enough. She was at home. Her tank top stuck to her lower back, sweat now cold on her skin, but she was used to the feeling. It had been a couple of weeks since she last went to the gym and sparred with anyone. She missed grappling onto another body and pressing them against the mat. She missed the adrenaline of the almost weightless moment where she lifted her opponent before slamming them to the floor like a sack of potatoes. Mmm… potatoes. She gripped the carved wooden tortoise capping the end of the banister and paused, apprehensive about stepping into the dining room after what had just transpired. Facing her dad would be interesting, but she wasn’t quite sure in what way yet.

When her father - daintily placing the cutlery astride the plates on the dining table - saw her, he froze momentarily, then brushed the smooth, shiny blond hair from his eyes and continued fixing the place settings. He was now pointedly not looking her way, even as she moved in front of him to take her seat at the table. The long, polished oak furniture set could seat eight, but most nights it was just the two of them. Them and the green ceramic fruit bowl shaped like a turtle upturned on its shell, balancing a pyramid of apples, grapes and plums in its hollow ‘belly’.

“What did you want to drink, honey?” Casey asked his daughter casually, then found a spot on the silver fork on his side of the table and thumbed at it with focused intent. He was pretending again, acting as if things weren’t strange between them right now. Like he hadn’t just caught her moments ago, masturbating on her bed with her father’s underwear on her head. Was he really going to not mention it at all? She tried to push her luck further.

“Beer?” Daphne suggested, plopping her firm behind onto the padded dining chair.

“No, you’re not having beer with your dinner,” said Casey, expressing his rarely effective authority in one of the small ways he still could. “I just bought some of that mango juice you like, I’ll get you a glass of that.” And he smoothed out his apron theatrically, turned, and puttered away to the kitchen. Daphne gripped her fork as she watched him go. The tight sundress he wore was thin and hugging that tight little behind, the view already riling her up with how that bum made the daisy-print fabric curve. Once he was out of sight her nose finally grabbed her attention and she started shovelling vegetables onto her plate.

If that was the extent of the scolding she would get for stealing her own father’s underwear then she was fine with it. Wasn’t she? Maybe… but it nagged at her. The way her dad just went on with his evening like everything was normal around here when clearly it wasn’t. Shit was fucked. That scene was fucked. Everything was fucking fucked! It sparked an ember in Daphne’s chest, and it flared with annoyance at the pushover her dad was.

She was about to start tearing into the roast when her father got back, glass of orange mango juice in hand. He placed it onto a coaster that seemed to appear like a magic card trick next to her hand then moved over to carve into the chicken. Daphne let herself be served and went for a cooling gulp of juice instead, eyeing the goblet of red wine her dad had already poured. He normally treated himself to one glass of wine a night, although tonight’s pour was noticeably more generous than usual. He was generous with her serving of chicken as well, slicing almost half of the bird onto his daughter’s plate. For his own meal he had retrieved a wing and a sliver of breast, a dollop of green vegetables on one side of his otherwise spacious plate. The entirety of his portion probably would have fit into his wine glass if there wasn’t all of that rich ruby liquid in it.

“Your mother’s working late again,” her dad said, seating himself, as if the woman of the house’s absence hadn’t been obvious. He picked up his drink and took a sip before anything else. Daphne scoffed loudly and jabbed a fork into her perfectly roasted chicken thigh. “What’s funny?” Casey couldn’t help asking his daughter, the earlier sips of wine he had snuck in while in the kitchen already warming his neck. The girl’s eyes flicked up to her diminutive dad, the red wine marking his lips like smudged lipstick.

“You know she’s just out banging some other guy right?” said Daphne, heat bubbling up her chest now. “Probably her skinny little redheaded secretary or something.”

“Don’t talk about your mother like that,” he said automatically, taking another measured sip. Daphne tried to bite into her chicken forcefully enough to counteract the twitch of her eye. “She works hard to put food on the table for us,” he added. Seriously? Now he had to be just fucking with her. But Daphne let her rage simmer down, her hunger a bit more overpowering than she had expected. The roast was really quite good, the expertly cooked meat tender and juicy. The herbs, the butter, the salt and spice… every bite was scrumptious. She decided to drop the fork in an act of etiquette defiance, picked up the chicken leg and chomped into it messily. It tasted even better this way and she quickly cleaned it down to the bone. She licked the grease from her fingers and wiped it from her chin, hiding her sneer behind her hand.

If Daphne would give her father any credit, it was that the man’s emotions remained in check a lot better than hers. She watched him politely eat his meal, surgically dividing the chicken into bite sized chunks. Every third bite was washed down with a warm mouthful of tart wine. But Daphne could still spot it… the slight quiver of the lip. The tremble of his fingers reaching for the glass. She had spoken the unspoken truth and the glassy eyed diligence of her father slowly cleaning his plate was a mask already starting to slip.

“I’m done,” she growled, slamming her empty glass onto the table, missing the coaster by a mile, which seemed to be what made her dad wince rather than the abrupt noise. The girl pushed away from the table, rattling cutlery and wobbling the turtle’s grip on its hug of fruit. Casey caught the stem of his glass of wine before anything could happen to it.

“Put your dirty clothes in the hamper, honey,” he called after the grumbling stormcloud shaped like his daughter.