Thank you for reading my story; I hope that you enjoy it. Love Mica xx, Yorkshire, England. Please note that I am a British female and I write in British English and vernacular, so for me, a fanny is the correct term for female genitalia, a pussy is a pet cat, and the ass is a bum or arse.

Work had been a drag; the afternoon just seemed to last forever, but eventually it was time to leave. Luckily, Fridays were an early mid-afternoon finish, and the bus was not too crowded, and I had a seat to myself. The rain had eased somewhat but still significantly affected my walk home from the bus stop. My small umbrella was ineffective against the swirling rain, which seemed to be falling more horizontally than vertically. I realised that it was probably only one degree above freezing, which made it feel more like snow than rain. At least I now have three days off, not due back in until Tuesday. It was my four-day week; I had one every month, and this was it. The weather could do what it liked; I didn’t care. Not until Tuesday anyway.

I unlocked and flicked the heating up; I only left it on tick over when I was out, just to keep the frost out. My coat went on the back of a chair in front of the radiator; it would soon dry and could be hung up properly in the cupboard under the stairs. For now, it needed to be warm, and I needed to be rewarded for keeping my clothes dry on my journey home. As I looked in the fridge to decide what I would eat, my doorbell bonged. Odd, who could that be? Did the God Botherers come out on cold, rainy winter evenings, I wondered?

I peeped through the sight glass. Oh, it was Dad.

I opened the door and ushered him inside. 

“Hello, Dad, come in quick before the cold comes in too.” I shut the door behind me and realised he had a bag with him.

“What are you doing here, Dad? I wasn’t expecting you. Have you had a row with Mum?" I asked, pointing at his bag.

"Hello, baby, no, nothing like that. Your mum has gone to see Gran and Uncle Steven down in Worcester and will be gone until Tuesday or even Wednesday, so, rather than be on my own, I thought I would pop and see you. If you had plans, that’s okay; I can always go back home."

“Don’t be silly; if I had plans, which I don’t, I would change them. "I only have one bed, though.”

“That’s fine; I’ll kip on the sofa. I am not much of a sleeper, anyway.”

Mum and Dad live on the other side of town, having downsized to a modern new estate after I left, me being the last of the children to fledge. Their house now is a very modern three-bed in a small estate. I didn’t go and visit often enough; I knew that. But I did usually FaceTime them once a week for an update and general keep-in-touch. I'm not sure whether my brothers did or not; I just know I did. Dad said his new house was so well insulated it probably cost less to heat than my smaller, older place. He was probably right, but I couldn’t do anything about my housing situation, not unless I won the lottery, and because I didn’t play the lottery, winning it was unlikely.

We hugged, as you do, and I asked him if he wanted a cup of tea. He nodded, and I put the kettle on and grabbed a couple of mugs from the mug tree on the work surface. I took the milk out of the fridge—luckily, I had some; I usually buy filtered milk that lasts a long time. I had been known to sit down in the evening with a glass of milk while curling up in front of Netflix.

I made the tea, handed a mug to Dad, and then sat down on my sofa while Dad sat next to me.

“So,” he said, “anyone special?" 

“Nah, not at the moment. I am in no rush to fill my life with someone who has needs and wants in addition to my own. If I meet someone and that happens, then it does; if not, then it is no drama.”

“Oh, okay. You know I have been with your mum for nigh on thirty years, and I still love to fill her needs and wants.”

“As long as she cleans your underpants,” I laughed.

“Yeah, there is that. That washing machine is a mystery; there are so many options, and then there are so many types of stuff to put in it: powder, liquid, sheets, bio, non-bio, colour catchers, and so on and so on.”

“You forgot the fabric softener,” I added with a smile.

"Exactly, and all I want is clean underwear. It is unfathomable; it really is. Your mother does it without even a thought.”

“Maybe, but you are the same with your work; you understand metals and how they interact, what makes them harder, what makes them softer, what materials you would use for an engine and what you wouldn’t. I don’t, and I doubt Mom does either. It’s horses for courses, Dad, horses for courses.”

“I suppose, but at the end of the day, I just want clean pants.”

“True, but I guess you could go commando and not wear undies.”

“Good grief.” 

We sat and drank our tea and talked about how Gran was getting older, now into her seventies, and even though Uncle Steven lived locally, the questions of how much longer she could continue living on her own were being asked.

“We are a long way away, Dad,” I said. “Worcester is what, a three- or four-hour drive.”

"Yes, it is, and that is if the traffic is okay.”

“What about you and Mum? I mean, you are not getting any younger either.”

“Well, thank you, Natalie Jane. Are you trying to get me and your mum into a home so that you can have your inheritance?”

“Ha ha, mind you, that is a thought; the money would be useful; perhaps I could buy a car.”

He dug me in the ribs and then turned the dig to a tickle. "Not any time soon, girl; dream on.”

I managed to stop the painful laugh that Dad’s tickle gave me and turned to Dad again. “I was being serious, Dad; you do need to think about your long-term plans, and for Mum too, as one of you will die before the other, and you will need plans in place.”

“Maybe, but we have life insurance, and that is as far as I want to go with this morbid subject.”

"Okay, Dad, but you started it by talking about Gran. Anyway, I am fine. As long as I have a job, I am fine.”

“And if you lose your job?”

“I shall come home and take it in turns with Mum to wash your underpants.”

“Good God.”

“And on that cheery note, I don’t really have anything in for tea. I wasn’t expecting anyone, and I usually get something on a Saturday.”

“Let’s go to the Indian round the corner; we can eat in, my treat.”

“Okay, yes, that’ll be nice. I will need to shower and stuff. I will go up first and then you can use the bathroom whilst I am in my bedroom.”

“That’s a plan then," Dad said.

I got up and went upstairs to my bedroom. There is a second room upstairs, but it is small and full of my junk, and I never set it out as a bedroom. I have plans to set it up as a sewing room and to make my own clothes, but I just never got around to it; it is just a room full of boxes of stuff. I never envisioned anyone ever staying, apart perhaps from a boyfriend, and so didn’t need to think about a bed in there. Now the unexpected arrival of Dad had made me rethink things. A guest room might be worth thinking about; it would only need a small single bed, and there would still be room for my sewing machine. Hhmm.

In my room, I stripped and threw my discarded clothes onto the chair and went across the landing to the bathroom and ran the shower. I had my shower on needle. I loved how the tiny jets of water almost stung as they hit, and oftentimes I would spray my groin and gasp as the jets hit my clitoris. Not today, not with Dad downstairs; there are some gasps that dads do not need to hear. I had only washed my hair two days ago, so I wore a plastic shower cap to cover my hair while I washed the rest of my body thoroughly and then rinsed off all the suds. Dripping dry, I stood on the bathmat and patted myself with the towel to get the drops that didn’t drip away. Satisfied I was dry, I called down to Dad that the bathroom was free and went back to my bedroom to dress.

What to wear. I looked in my wardrobe and decided that the blue satin dress would be perfect, dug out my blue bra and suspender belt and rummaged through my drawers to find a matching pair of decent stockings. No matter who I am going out with and to where, I like to dress up. No knickers – can’t abide them.

I adjusted my boobs into the cups of the bra and then stepped into the suspender belt. I sat on the edge of the bed and unrolled my stockings up my legs. Trying to keep the seam straight at the back, I managed to clip the stockings up, and then I stood up and looked in the mirror. They looked good; they would go well with the kitten-heel blue pumps I would wear.

I looked at myself in the mirror. Not bad, not bad at all. I have a nice flat stomach; no girly bulge, apart from my mound, of course, and that was very nicely shaped with the slit of my crease going vertically down and disappearing underneath. a small dimple at the top just above where my clitoris hid, awaiting discovery.

My inner labia just peeped through, and although I have never really fancied women, I thought my fanny looked fabulous. Just no one else is currently admiring it – a shame, but then at least I don't have their baggage to contend with. I heard Dad leaving the bathroom and going downstairs, just catching a glimpse of him in my mirror as he walked past in his underpants. I chided myself; I had someone else in the house, and there I was, leaving my bedroom door open as I dressed. Unthinkingly, what if Dad had looked in and seen me?

I took the dress off its hanger and stepped into it, doing the zip up on the side to secure everything, and then dug my blue kitten-heeled shoes out from the bottom of the wardrobe. I looked at myself in the mirror and nodded approval; I looked good. Of course, if I had been going on a date, then I would have worn my black six-inch heels, but I still looked good, and I reckoned I could turn heads if I wanted to.

“Are you decent?" I called. “I am coming down.” 

"Yes, baby, all decent and respectable,” he answered. I checked my room: clothes worn to one side on my chair, quilt pulled up over the bed; yes, Dad could sleep in here. I didn’t plan on letting him have the sofa; no, I would sleep there; Dad would have my bed.

“My goodness,” Dad said as I came downstairs into the living room. “Look at you; you look quite stunning. You remind me so much of your Mum when she was your age.”

“Thank you, Dad, and you look good yourself." He was wearing chinos, a roll-top sweater and a jacket. Very nineteen-seventies, but still smart. He keeps himself trim; no large male belly on Dad. No, he worked out using the home gym he had in the garage, and I think Mum used it sometimes too.

“Is it still raining?” I asked, "Only I have a large umbrella somewhere.”

Dad opened the front door. "Yup, baby, it sure is.”

I looked around at the back of my clothes cupboard and found my large umbrella. It is a large golf umbrella that someone left on the bench, and I rescued it one rainy day. I don’t use it a lot; I prefer my collapsible handbag umbrella, but for tonight, for Dad and me, it would be perfect. I passed it to Dad, shut the cupboard and took my coat off the chair by the radiator and put it on. It is a large wrap-over camel-coloured Vivienne Westwood that I got for a steal on eBay; it keeps me dry and is quite stylish, and I love it.

Dad opened the front door and put up the umbrella. I grabbed my handbag and joined him under its protection as I closed and locked my front door. We walked out onto the road and then along the footpath, Dad on the roadside, ever the gentleman, and we made our way to the restaurant about fifteen minutes by foot.

At the restaurant, I opened the door and stepped inside; Dad shook and closed the umbrella and joined me inside. The greeter came across and said, "How may I help?” He asked in his slight Asian-Yorkshire hybrid accent. 

“Table for two, please,” Dad responded.

“Yes, yes,” the greeter replied. "Yes, I have a special table for you in the window, away from the door; you will find it most comfortable.”

He led the way to the corner of the restaurant to a table that was by the wall but also by the window; we would be secluded and away from the general hubbub and away from the draught of the front door every time it opened.

"May I take your coat, Madam?” The greeter asked, and I nodded and slipped it off my shoulders and passed it to him. He took our umbrella too and disappeared off through a two-way swing door.

I looked at the menu and decided I would have lamb Rogan Josh. Dad was having a chicken vindaloo, and we would have a sharing platter of starters. Dad ordered a bottle of white house to go with it and a jug of water.

“So then, boyfriend, girlfriend, really, nothing even on the horizon with a telescope?”

"No, Dad,” I laughed, “not even with the Hubble telescope. I am just not looking.”

“What would you prefer, boy or girl?” 

“I only have experience of boys, Dad, so probably I would lean that way, but I am not ruling anything in or out. If it happens, it will be whatever it will be.”

“How long since your last boyfriend?”

“Oh, I don’t know, it was Matthew, probably about nine months, something like that; it was around Easter that we split.”

“God, I couldn’t go that long without intimacy. Jeez, I mean, I would go mad.”

“Well, luckily, you are married; all you have to do is not piss Mum off, and you are golden. Me? I have to make do with my lucky rabbit, and that is it until Mr or Mrs Right happens along.”

At that point, the server arrived with our starters, poppadoms and pickles, and I have to say that the lamb chops looked fab as they sat with the other sides on the sizzling platter. Glistening with their coating and well-cooked as they should be in an Indian restaurant. I grabbed one straight away; Dad took a seekh kebab and dropped it on his plate.

"Hot," he gasped.

Well, yes, good; they have just been cooked; they should be hot. Like all lamb chops served at an Indian restaurant, they were very well cooked; all the fat was crispy, and they had that masala taste. Really good. We sat munching through our starters, taking one of everything each. The kebab was nice, but for me, the lamb chop was best. I wasn’t so keen on the masala fish bites, but they were, I guess, okay.

“Lucky Rabbit?” Dad asked when we had finished our sharing platter.

“Yes, you know?” 

“No, I actually have no clue what you are on about.”

“Oh, Dad, I am sure Mum probably has one, you know, a vibrator. They sell them in Tesco these days.”

“A what?”

“Oh, Dad. A vibrator, usually about the size of a carrot, vibrates and stimulates you. You can just use it on the outside, or you can insert it; it vibrates.”

“Good God. I have never heard of such a thing; in my day, girls just made use of their fingers."

"Progress, Dad, a vibrator is much, much better. I would be very surprised if Mum doesn’t have one. It's probably a good idea not to ask her or go looking; we girls do need some secrets.”

Dad gave me one of those looks that dads sometimes give, and I think he was about to say something, but our table was cleared and then our mains arrived. I was looking forward to my Rogan Josh, and Dad’s Vindaloo was positively glistening with the spice on it. A bowl of plain rice and another of pilau arrived, and a second bottle of wine; we seemed to have finished the first one without noticing.

I took a piece of my lamb and tasted it. Perfect, spicy enough to wake my mouth up, but not too hot to kill my taste buds. I could never do a Vindaloo; a Madras was as hot as I would go. I portioned some rice onto my plate and added some of my Rogan Josh and dug in. Dad did the same with his and took a mouthful and gasped.

“Shit, they do their vindaloo hotter than at my local Indian,” he said as he poured a glass of wine down his throat.

“Ask them for some yoghurt, Dad; that’ll cool it down a bit spice-wise."

Dad waved his hand...