Dances to a hit song, father becomes a predator

I had heard the song before. I’m sure you have too, a thousand times.

Blurred lines.


I know you want it.

For most of last summer, it was the only song on the radio. Being a forty-five year old father of two, I wasn’t exactly the target demographic. The only reason I remembered the name of the song was when my wife showed me the online-only version of the music video.

“I can’t believe this,” she said, as two almost entirely nude girls frolicked around on the screen. “Remember when we watched MTV and it was just music and the band playing? What the hell is this?”

I shook my head, partly disgusted (because I was), and partly playing the role of the cordial husband. “I know it’s cliche, but what is wrong with kids these days? This is practically porn.”

All the while I was half-wondering when I’d find the alone time to jerk off to it. I had to say things like that ever since her moral crusade had started some years ago. It was a reason we’d started to grow apart, and why sex was perhaps a once-a-month proposition. I would think back to our younger days, when she told me she would have married me only for my massive ‘endowment,’ and we even fooled around with the idea of swinging. I’d also think back to my idealistic young self thinking that looks weren’t that important in a wife. Now I was trapped with a flat-chested republican raisin (my God I’m awful, but if you’d seen how she looked, you’d at least understand me, I hope). Where had my cute little pervert gone? C’est la vie, I’d tell myself. Such is marriage.

“This is how it happens, boundaries just get destroyed,” she continued, “It’s not like this is obscure. This is the most popular song and video right now. A song about rape with four minutes of nude girls dancing around for the video. What’s next? What will shock our grandkids? When does it stop?”

She shook her head. I walked away from her desk as she kept browsing the internet on her laptop. And, as far as I was concerned, I’d never think twice about the silly song again.

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A week later, I left work early walked into my house, and the song was blaring out of my living room. It wasn’t the first time I’d come home to a girl dance party. My eighteen year old daughter had been boogying it up with her friends after school since her grade school days. I usually glanced into the living room before leaving them be, rather than barging in to be the “lame dad” that made them hit the stop button.

As much as it may make me sound like a pervert, my daughter had to deal with being otherworldly attractive for years. By the time her birthday hit, she was something you can’t describe. You could say it was “it.” If I had to take a shot at it, she would be Jennifer Lawrence’s face attached to Kelly Brook’s body, but that doesn’t do her justice. Take away the minor faults of either of those two gorgeous woman, and you’ be closer to the miracle that was my daughter.

Cheerleading, modelling, acting, “pretty girl” things were her activities for years. She was the girl you looked at and knew she could make a career just from being beautiful. Yet she was fairly smart, or at least average, which I accepted. Still, I never thought of it in anything beyond a fatherly capacity. When the thousandth person remarked that “she should be a model” to me or my wife, we knew what they meant. When another neighborhood dad, coach, or teacher, was a little too smiley and let their hand linger on her shoulder after demanding a hug because of “how glad they were to see her,” I never made a fuss. She had the common sense to know when an old man wanted a hug to feel her chest against them. It was the way the world worked, and that was the end of it.

This time, when I glanced in on one of her dance parties, it was far from what I expected.

My daughter was shucking and jiving in nothing but thong underwear, the same type the models wore in the video. Her far less attractive friend was next to her, also nearly nude, mimicking the moves from the video.

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I froze and hid behind the doorway into the kitchen, a good twenty feet from the living room. I had a full on view of the proceedings, and knew my wife and son wouldn’t be home for at least another half an hour. At first I wanted to barge in and start yelling like a typical father would, but there was some sick curiosity in me that made me watch a bit longer than I should have. Then, with what I saw, I watched for far longer than a healthy man should. Or perhaps, with a woman with my daughter’s looks nearly nude in front of me, that’s exactly what a healthy man would do.

You’re the hottest bitch in this place.

They would start off the top of the song mimicking the girls from the music video exactly. Same stuttering walks, same clawing motions, same poses. Then around the time the rapper’s verse came up, they did this sort of hip shaking routine with their arms above their heads. I supposed this was their version of improvising. All the while they were laughing and singing, thinking it was just an innocent teen singalong.

Then the beat dropped and it was a raw drum thundering over the occasional looped lyric, and my daughters body did something to me that made me feel something I had never experienced before in my life.

When the drop came, and the music changed, she mounted her back arms on our living room sofa and gyrated her hips in a humping motion. Her ass was slightly on a dresser behind the couch, so her legs were lifted just off the floor. However she was moving her hips, it caused her breasts to jiggle in these tight, controlled circles. Every ounce of her youthful energy and the pertness of her jostling breasts just seemed to flow forth in a beam of light, straight at me.

“Yea baby, shake those tits!” her friend called out, laughing. It was some kind of moral justification for their debauchery, they were just ‘having fun’, lol, lmfao, #funny. With my daughter’s head tilted back, her eyes closed, her brow slightly furled and her puffy lips quivering, there wasn’t any doubt in my mind that she was fucking the air with the intensity of an experienced backroom stripper.

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The blood rush to my cock so fast that my face went cold. I was taken back with the way she looked at that moment. It didn’t help that the portion of the song lasted for a full twenty seconds. Her friend danced around and sort of held fort while my daughter took the sexually charged, pop-culture endorsed debauchery to take her mind and body to another place. I felt my eyes sink and my mouth drop open. The pure sexual need spewing forth from her felt like a scorching hot wind blowing into my face. It was the most erotic experience I had ever had in my life.

To save you time, I’ll summarize that they replayed the song in all its glory, and they had the routine down to a science. When the beat was about to drop, I started to rub my rock hard erection through my pants. This time, my daughter seemed to press it to another level, trying hard to get whatever teenaged horniness haunted her soul out into the world as she gyrated in that perfect motion. I came, hard, before she was done. As I sprayed my sorry self, I took a “hi-def” mental image of the pure sex before me. As they cued it up again, I did the smart thing and went upstairs as quiet as a church mouse. It was a good thing I did, since if I had succumbed to temptation and continued to watch, I would have been the first thing my wife and son saw as they came into the house. My daughter and friend must have escaped with their stereo as they pulled into the driveway, as my wife didn’t discipline her or mention what they were doing.

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