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June, 2008
In June of 2008, I was coming up on my 33rd birthday. I was struggling with depression more than usual. I know. Women are moody and emotional, but this was different.
Three months earlier, I had sex with my father. And in the days following that sick act, I withdrew. I started avoiding Morton (my father-in-law), not taking his calls. He called three or four times a day. At first, I took his calls just to say that I wasn’t feeling well. He asked about symptoms, as if I had some physical illness. I said it wasn’t like that. I just needed some time alone.
I would spend hours in front of the bathroom mirror, trying to put on makeup. And I couldn’t get it right. I hated my face. I hated the war paint. Every look was the wrong look. I didn’t know what I wanted to look like.
I was out of pot to smoke and with no desire to look for any. I was drinking hard liquor to the point of being a stumbling, mumbling idiot. I was calling in sick, not wanting to work, not wanting to face the men at the bar who wanted to see if they could get their waitress to sneak into their car in the parking lot for a blow job.
Not that I did that. But they asked. They knew me and they asked and I had to expect it.
I was full of regret. Fucking papa was the bitch of all psychological hangovers. And I dreaded him calling me, looking to me to relieve himself again. I knew he would. Now that he had his taste, he’d be back. It was just a matter of time.
But he did not. The days passed, and there was no call. And somehow they just made it all worse. I’d sit in front of the mirror, drunk, tearing up, my makeup all smeared up, and tell myself, ‘Daddy killed his little girl. He just wanted to rub out any sweet sentiment he might have had of me as his Little Angel. He killed off that image of me as his Sweet Baby. And I let him! I encouraged him!”
So, I would stay drunk. And when I went to work, I went to work drunk. And when men at the bar hit on me, I would insult them. Not very imaginatively, either. I’d just say, ‘Fuck off!’ or something else as lame.
My assessment of myself was that I was one fucked up, stupid cow. The only man that showed me any love was my father-in-law, and I was avoiding him because he did not want it known in public that we were lovers. He had every fucking right to not want that get around. Morton was a good, kind man. How pathetic was I to want him to acknowledge that he was banging his daughter-in-law, and that he actually had feelings for her? Her, a known whore?
March and April passed with me in this deep funk. And it wasn’t even a artsy kind of cool, bluesy kind of suffering funk. I was just being a bitch when I wasn’t holed away somewhere on a whiny, pitiful crying jag.
I had moments of self-destructive impulses where I told myself I would go back to Roland, that evil pimp and be his slave. ‘I’ll join his stable and let him hook me on crack. Why the fuck not? what have I got to live for?’ But I didn’t.
I had a son, I told myself. I lost two children, but I had one. I tended to leave him with my babysitter too much, though. I didn’t trust myself around him, didn’t think of myself as a good enough mother for him. But I had him to live for. Trouble was, he would grow up and what would he learn about me? What would he think of me?
In the middle of May, my father still had not called. I couldn’t believe his moral strength. I thought, surely by now he would give in to his lust and call me, even if it was to get into a nasty conversation and tell me what a disappointment I was to him. I got angry enough about this that one Sunday morning I got up early and went to church.
Oh, I didn’t go in. I knew I was not welcome – forbidden, in fact, from stepping inside. But I sat in my car in the parking lot, waiting for service to end, just so he would see me when he came out with my mother.
I waited. I told myself, ‘You are going to see my face, papa. You are at least going to have to face me.’ And the time came, and the congregation began to exit. He came out with mom and my son and daughter, the babies taken from me by CPS. I was violating a restraining order doing this, but I didn’t care.
I stepped out of my car and leaned against the car door. I was dressed in a short, tight navy blue skirt, wearing a light purple blouse with a low V-neck, hose and heels.
He saw me and froze in his steps. My children saw me next. My mother last. I didn’t want to confront them any further. I just waved high at them all and tried not to show any expression on my face.
Then I got back in my car and left. The next morning, I called my daddy at his place of work.
“What do you want,” he asked.
I meant to provoke him into fucking me again. I didn’t care if that was the only way to have contact with him. I would rather that than this long, miserable vacuum. I felt like a criminal banished to some desert where there was no life and there was no light and there was no warmth of any kind.
“Why don’t you call me, papa?” I asked.
“Why aydın escort should I,” he said.
“Because you want me. I know you want me,” I said.
There was a pause and his voice was full of tension when he did reply, “I don’t … I don’t want you nor do I want anything to do with you.”
“That is not true. I can tell, in your voice. You want to fuck me right now. You want to stick your cock in my pussy and fuck me right now.”
“Shut up with that,” he said.
“Come on, papa. Admit it. You want me. Don’t you?”
“No, no I do not. I am done with you,” he said, but he did not hang up the phone and I did not respond. I let the silence build between us. Then I said, “I think about us fucking. I think about what you did to me.”
“You mean what you made me do!” he said.
“I didn’t put a gun to your head. You wanted to fuck me. Oh, and you fucked me good. You fucked my mouth. And you fucked my pussy and you put your sperm in my pussy. And you ate my pussy. I made you do all that? I forced you? Are you saying I raped you, papa?”
“Shut up. You evil bitch!” he said in a low, disturbed voice.
“Yes, papa. I’m an evil bitch. But you still want to fuck me.”
“Why did you go to church yesterday? I should have reported you to CPS. Do you want that? Leave us alone!”
“I don’t care what you do. Call CPS. Why don’t you tell them you fucked your daughter while you’re at it. Huh? Bet they’d love to hear about that,” I said.
There was a click. He had hung up on me. I got angry at that, and called him back. He did not answer, it went to voice mail and I left a three-minute recording describing me sucking my daddy’s cock until I got him to cum all over my face.
But he didn’t call me. He didn’t call me and I wanted him to call me. That just made me feel worse about myself.
I had been toying with the idea of getting back into prostitution for some time. But except for one client I took on the night before I had sex with my father, I had not followed through.
I had been ignoring Morton enough by now that he was not trying to reach me anymore. I was alone. And not having sex, not even with strangers. I was horny and obsessed with getting papa to fuck me and just generally hating myself for getting my head stuck in this box.
I didn’t want to be picking up guys from the bar. Word would get around pretty quick and I would get overwhelmed with offers, or so I thought. I decided I needed a weekend out of town.
So, I drove into Coushatta, Louisiana that last weekend in May to visit the casino and mingle with the gamblers. There were plenty of strangers there looking for some female company.
I had a lot of pent-up sexual energy. And that made me work the casino hard. I was getting from $150 to $300 a pop. I just wanted to fuck.
I got there on a Friday evening with three club dresses to wear and no underwear. I bag full of condoms and a makeup organizer. I got my face paint on and dropped by the black jack table first. Admiring the players and scouting for men in need of company.
Between the time spotting my mark, the warm-up conversation, the walk by to my room, the sex and the clean up afterward, I was getting a fuck every two and a half hours. I had two dates Friday night, six on Saturday and four Sunday.
I made $2,700 and after expenses drove home with $2,200. That was about what I made working one month at the bar. I left with one more thing. I got three of my dates to agree to video. I went home and burned another dvd and mailed it to my dad, so he would see what his girl did for a living.
A week after I mailed he, he called me. “Filthy whore,” were the first words out of his mouth. Well, I thought, now he’s all worked up and probably with a hard on.
“Yes, papa. I’m a filthy whore. Mmmmm, did you jerk off to me sucking another man’s hard cock until he came in my mouth, daddy? Did you like that?”
“You’re a slut! A shameless cock-sucking, filthy whore. You are not my daughter. I disown you.”
“I will always be your daughter, but that’s okay, papa. Go on. Disown me, like you haven’t done everything already that you could to cut me off from everything I ever loved.”
“You are not worthy of love, you piece of filth! You’re a disease. You are trash.”
“Is that so, papa? Yes, yes I’m trash. But men need to fuck with trash, don’t they. Even decent men. Do you want to fuck with your trashy ex-daughter, daddy, huh? Feel like using me, abusing me?”
“You disrespectful, shameless deviant, sending me filth like that to watch, to your own father,” he complained.
“My own father? Oh. I’m sorry. I thought I wasn’t your daughter anymore. Now I’m confused. So, do you want to fuck your daughter, or do you want to fuck your whore ex-daughter?”
There was a silence. No answer. So, I said, “What’s the matter, daddy dear? No answer? …. I want your cock, papa. I want it. I want you to fuck my hot, shameless, whoring pussy. Think about my wet pussy, papa. Think about how goood it nazillibelediyespor.org feels when you stick your hard, hard cock in me.”
And still there was no answer. He was getting off to me!
“Yesss, yes daddy. Fuck me. Fuck your dirty girl. Fuck me, fuck it to me. Fuck my pussy. Wanna fuck my throat? You can. I’ll let you. Mmmmm, your cock is so sweet, papa. It is the sweetest cock of all, because it’s yours and I want yours more than I want any other. Fuck my throat, papa.”
He was so quiet.
“Mmmm, are you stroking your cock, daddy? Are you? Tell me you are stroking your cock. I’m touching my pussy, and my pussy is wet and wishing you were up inside me, sticking it to me deep and hard. Yes, oh yeeaa. Mmmm, stroke your cock papa, and think about pounding it to your whore daughter. Yess, papa, you think about that and come and see me.”
I stopped and listened and heard the faint sound of breathing.
“Do you want to see me now, papa? …. Do you want to see me now?”
More silence, and then a soft, “Yes.”
“I’m waiting for you. I’m waiting for you. I’ll be naked, papa. Naked at the door. Want to see your whore daughter naked, waiting for you, horny for you and that sweet, hard cock?”
Silence, and then a soft, “Yes.”
“Come over, daddy. Come over now. Come over now and fuck me, and cum inside me. Do you want to fuck me until you cum inside me?”
This time there was no silence or hesitation, he just said, “Yes, yes I do.”
I hung up the phone. Twenty minutes later there was a ring at my apartment door. I was already naked.
I opened the door wide, with no concern someone might walk behind him and see me. He stood there like stone. “Come in, papa,” I said, but he didn’t move.
So, I walked up to him and walked around him, standing outside naked. “Want everybody to see us like this,” I asked.
He let slip a look of shock. He stepped inside and I followed him in. I walked past him from the living room straight to my bedroom.
He followed me on wooden legs, all stiff and awkward. He was clearly not comfortable with giving in to his lust. Not comfortable with the situation.
I sat on my bed and he came to stand before me. He would let me lead. I immediately sat with my thighs open wide and started fingering my clit. My big tits sagging, My slightly plump belly compressed and exaggerated by my sitting position.
I played with a nipple and I played with my clit and I watched my daddy watch me. He smiled.
I opened my mouth and smiled as I extended my tongue.
He said, “Slut!”
I said, “Yessss.”
I knew we could not discuss it. I knew I couldn’t say it. But despite everything, I loved him. And it would be my pleasure, after all I had done to ruin the family name, to help my daddy release some of his tension by using me in this way.
“See how wet I am, papa?” My fingers on my clit and slit were glistening.
“Horny slut,” he said. He reached out and caressed my hair and I melted, my heart felt comfort in that. I leaned my head against his tough. I closed my eyes.
“I need you, papa,” I said.
“You mean you need this,” he said as a statement of fact as he reached for his penis and squeezed it, allowed its form to be visible then within his slacks.
“Yes, papa. I need that. And I need yours the most,” I said, truthfully.
I unzipped his pants. And saw to my amazement that my hands were shaking. I pulled myself together. I didn’t want to show too much vulnerability. But I didn’t want this to end like our first sex act did.
I slipped my fat ass off the bed and knelt knees into the carpet. I looked up at him and extended my tongue, flicking the tip against the helmet of my papa’s penis.
“Don’t be made at me, papa. Please don’t be mad at me.”
My lips swarmed over his cock. I pumped mouth on it. I sucked him. I sucked papa’s penis and watched his face for any sign that I might break down his ice cold heart.
He sneered at me, “Mad at you? If I were an Old Testament man, I would have you stoned to death. You filthy, Godless cunt!”
That was okay, I thought. I sucked him sweetly. Moaning and letting the head reach my throat. I took it out and rubbed it on my chin as I answered, “But you’re not an Old Testament man, are you?”
And I took papa’s penis into my mouth again. I looked away from his eyes and sucked in earnest. Making him harder, keeping him hard.
I heard exhalations. I sucked his penis. I heard a whimper. I looked up and bobbed cock into me. He said, “I’m weak. I’m a fool to let you get to me.”
I watched his lips mutter as I sucked his cock. I took it out and rubbed it all over my face. I licked his testicles and sniffed at the odor of his organs. I took in the musk and heard him ask, “Where did you make that video? Who were those men?”
I looked up at him and stroked his cock. “I met them in Coushatta, at the casino.”
“How many men did you have sex with there?”
I kissed his cock. I licked it and kissed it again, and then answered, “An even dozen. I sold myself to twelve men over a weekend.”
He closed his eyes and turned his head up to the ceiling. He grabbed my hair, not looking at me, and pulled hard. He pulled so hard that I had to let go of him and rise to me feet.
“Uhhhh!” I said.
He brought his other hand across in a swift motion and slapped my face with a loud SMACK! I fell back on the bed.
“Whore!” he said.
The blow stung and caught me unawares. I decided not to taunt him again. I knew him capable of giving me a severe beating.
“I’m sorry, papa! I’m sorry!”
I pretended to cry, covering my face with my hands.
I felt him grab both of my calves and lift them to his hips. Once my calves were there, I pressed them into his torso. I hooked my heels into his hips and tugged him to me.
“Shameless whore,” he grunted.
I felt him fumble with his hands, putting his penis into position. He arched forward. I felt his back in motion before I felt his cock touch the labia of my vagina.
And then he was inside me.
As he began to thrust, I moved my hands away from my face to reveal and smile and no tears.
“You devil, you have no remorse. You lying slut!” he said in staccato syllables.
I smiled and toyed with my tongue, flicking it at him. Daddy fucked me and I was pleased with myself from bringing him once again down to my level.
His thrusts made my ample white flesh jiggle. And my tattoos danced. And his cock was unlike any other simply because it was his and I need his to make me feel like I still mattered to him. In some sick way, I was still consequential. I could still reach some part of him.
I don’t know what other people think about incest. I never thought of it as an act to get off on. I never once growing up had a sexual fantasy about me with my papa. And if the subject came up, my first reaction was, yuk, how sick is that.
But now. On this day. I was almost 33. And there was no eligible bachelor in this town that would think me marriage material. Now, on this day, my daddy fucking me was the closest thing I could get emotionally to intimacy. The other men, they were just casual encounters that only momentarily filled a hole in me – that was lust.
My papa fucking me, well it wasn’t love for him. And maybe it wasn’t love for me. But at least it was validation. It made me feel like I was still a part of a life that I had all but lost.
My feet and calves pressed tight into his sides. I watched his EVERY move. I let myself whimper and moan with every pleasurable feeling of the flesh and heart.
“Don’t stop, papa. Don’t ever stop fucking me. Please tell me you’ll come back. Please, please don’t stop!”
He would not answer. But he did not stop or hesitate to thrust himself into me. He wanted this. He wanted to complete the act. He wanted to fuck his whore daughter and release his seed inside me.
“Uhhh,” I moaned with pleasure.
“Nnnn,” he grunted back.
I let out a little happy laugh, nothing insolent. Just the laugh of an old girl who is happy.
He smiled. The ice was broken. Maybe it was just for a moment. But there was a break. Maybe now he would hate me just a little bit less.
He soon replaced the smile with a grimace, then he bit into his bottom lip and I thought he would soon ejaculated.
“Do you want to cum, papa?”
He thrust into me, quickening his pace. Then he nodded a yes. He grunted.
“Cum papa,” I said softly. I was close to an orgasm, but not close enough. He would cum first, and maybe only he would cum, but I didn’t care if it was only him and not me as well.
“Ahhhh!” he let out, his mouth fully open. His thrusts began to stagger and break rhythm and his throat convulsed and coughed into a cry and there were tears welling in his eyes. He had one more curse in him.
“Y y you goddamn you, goddamn you!”
He slowed his pace, but did not stop. I apologized sincerely, “I’m sorry, daddy. I’m sorry, I’m so bad. I’m sorry. I really am.”
He pulled out. I sat up. I asked for permission to suck his cock clean. He stepped away and said no.
He stepped sideways and sat on the corner of the bed, his back to me. I walked around to be in front of him and knelt. I took his cock in hand and asked again, “Please, papa. Let me clean it. This is my way. This is how I take care of men. Please let me. Don’t be mad.”
He nodded his acceptance and watched me lick. I wanted him to see how tender I could be with a cock. How much I loved it. And after a few minutes of living his shriveling organ, he caressed my hair.
I looked up and I could see pain in his eyes. He gulped down his pain and stuffed it somewhere in his chest. And I had to ask.
“Is it so bad, papa? Is it so terrible, what I am?”
He stroked my sweaty blond hair and said, “You really love this, don’t you? This is your calling?”
I let go of his penis. I let if fall. I brought my hands to his knees and stroked forward on his thighs.
“I thought it was. when I first, when it started. I loved it so much, daddy! But, sometimes, I guess it’s like anything you do in life. Sometimes, I feel like I’ve lost my way, and it’s just another job.”
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