How to Get a Daddy to Sleep

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orphan_account Fandoms: Father/Daughter - Fandom, Incest - Fandom, Family Sex - Fandom, Young Love - Fandom, Older Man/Younger Girl - Fandom Even at home with my mother, I would crawl into her bed to sleep at night. Meanwhile, at Dad's house, the abuse continued. I'd go to sleep, genuinely fall asleep, and he'd get in bed. I'd wake up and feel his warm skin, his erection against my bottom, his breathing in my ear, the slight scent of Budweiser on his breath. One afternoon, there was a spanking after a sexual encounter and the link between sex and shame became permanent in my brain. I believed that I had let the sex happen, and that it was my fault; I believed that I was the bad one. But the sex itself wasn't necessarily enjoyable for me. I wanted the sex, no doubt, but I also used it to keep feeling ashamed. I was casual and cavalier about having sex, refused to take it seriously -- and as a result ended up feeling awful about some of the sexual choices I made.

I could hardly wait for him to reach into my panties and give me that tingling feeling. I didn't know then that I was having orgasms; it would be years before I learned that word, and even longer before I admitted to myself that what I experienced was orgasm. But sometimes the incest felt good -- that special feeling, all that attention and love and affection from my nice daddy. And he was, in my young mind, my nice daddy; he hugged me and put Band-Aids on my skinned knees and sang Sinatra songs to me. Why not just tell them you love their stubbornness, or their hot-headedness while their alive? So they actually know that you love them for who they are. Why is that? Is it just politeness? You don’t want to speak ill of the dead because they might haunt you? Because they’re dead? Is that it?” I was desperate, and needy. I rarely saw my dad, and when I did he was cold and dispassionate. He didn't treat me the same way, and I wasn't his No. 1 girl. I no longer held his attention, and I was no longer his obsession. I felt that I'd lost his love.I didn’t feel guilty. Death didn’t scare me; talking about it didn’t bother me. Death wasn’t sad, it was just natural. I was young when I knew that I would never cry at anyone’s funeral. Not a friend’s, not a grandparent’s. Not even my mother’s. And I was right. orphan_account Fandoms: Father/Daughter - Fandom, Daddy/Daughter - Fandom, Incest - Fandom, Taboo - Fandom, rape - Fandom, Young - Fandom, Younger And Older, Family Sex - Fandom

They didn’t scurry to wake her. I knew that they wouldn’t. That my mother was dead. That she would stay dead. She had wanted to die. And I had let her.

I thought it meant that I was special. I didn't know it would turn sex into an act of shame.

I would never have guessed that I would lose my virginity to my own father. In a sense, it was right. He gave me everything he had to give. It seemed only proper that I give him the one thing I had to offer. I had killed my mother. I owed this to him. He had loved her more than anything, and I had taken her away from him. I stood on my bare feet in the middle of my room. I took my gloves off and threw them in some dark corner in my closet. I scratched furiously up and down my arms, irritated that my father had forced me to wear gloves even if it wasn’t too cold out. He’d insisted. He’d told me my mother had loved it when I wore those gloves. She’d bought them for me from Spain. She had loved Spain. That was another thing I knew about her. I turned on my side and faced away from him, closing my eyes. I opened them after what felt like hours. I couldn’t sleep. Neither could my father. He usually snored – big, monstrous snores that could keep people in the next room awake. The night was painfully silent. A buzzing began in my ears and it was deafening. It was a habit I kept for a long time after those days -- I'd make myself come but not in the presence of others. It was like a vestige of Daddy; for a long, long time, only Daddy would make me come. Chris gave me a lot: He replaced my father as the man who kept me front and center in his gaze, something I so desperately needed. But here's the catch, something I didn't think about until recently. How did the girls know? How had this rumor managed to get passed down? Who else played with Mr. Bernard?

She took my hand in both of hers, pressing it to her forehead. She breathed slowly, and then more slowly. The abuse stopped when I was 9, and I became a voracious masturbator. I longed to relive the sensation that had grabbed me between the legs and had felt so good. I would lie on my stomach and rub around the outside of my vagina until I came. Sometimes I used the stream of water from the bathtub spigot. My father once walked in on me taking a bath and masturbating in that way, and he didn't say a word about it. She didn’t ask for my father. She was still angry. Her stubbornness was another thing I knew of her.

You are… so stubborn. So insensitive.” From my father, it came out an angry shout. “I ask you this one thing –” My mother lay underneath me. I was suffocating her, my elbow crammed under her chin. When I stood, I was standing on the street: the bus was on its side, all its windows broken. Glass was wedged in my palm, my hair, my burning cheeks. Forced, reluctant, and rough one-shot. See tags for full kink list.) Language: English Words: 4,257 Chapters: 1/1 Comments: 7 Kudos: 410 Bookmarks: 62 Hits: 32,587