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Our times together would be not much more than a few minutes of kissing and cuddling, enough to sustain our love and affection for each other but barely. Also, with assignments and preparations for end-of-semester assessments and exams in full swing, we barely even had time to talk on the phone or chat online. Instead, much of our correspondence was in the form of photos of ourselves sent to each other: nothing at all racy, just self-portraits taken on our phones featuring a variety of facial expressions. I tended to make all sorts of weird and wonderful faces in my shots; Emma preferred to keep hers rather conventional. My favourite would be of her giving a small, closed-mouth smile: one-part happiness without excessive exuberance, one-part knowing look, possibly even a flirt. Something about that look did something to me: I would keep that image on my phone, but only look at it surreptitiously like it was a dirty magazine.May ran headlong into June and soon the Queen’s Birthday. My breath quickens and my face reddens. What was happening to me? I flush again for good measure, my breasts fighting my bra, the sensation of the cold material against my chest pinching my nipples, the jet of water again hitting my clitoris made me whimper.. perhaps a bit too loudly.. I look up, and see Him..Daddy. He was looking at me through the crack in the door, because I didn't shut it all the way. It wasn't something that I did on purpose then, but I do often now. He clears his throat, pushing the door open, as I try and cover my wet slit with my hand. Smirking at me, He reaches behind me and presses the button over and over again, the water keeping constant pressure against my velvety honey hole. “Ahhhh!” I moan, the feeling intensifies double now that I am not the one pressing the button. “And this girl, is a bidet.” With that, he turns and walks out the door, leaving me straddled on the bidet wondering what in the fuck had just happened to me. Part of me wonders how.
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