Chapter 1: Incestuous Beginnings

My name is Riley Edwards, or at least that’s the name I’m giving you. I’m twenty-eight now, but when my dad and I started sleeping together I was fourteen.

Now, as soon as you read that my father fucked me, you probably thought he was some kind of monster, a child molester, a pedophile. But that’s not the case. My dad is a flawed person. But isn’t everyone? I certainly wasn’t damaged by our relationship; changed maybe, but not damaged. I’m not saying what we did was right or good, but it wasn’t some horror story either. But you can read on and judge for yourself.

I guess I should probably start by telling you about my dad. First, he is a really good-looking guy, six-foot tall, with piercing blue eyes, and very fit—he makes it to the gym most days. He had started to go bald in his twenties, and he shaved his head, a look that he, unlike a lot of guys, could really pull off. He was also funny and utterly charming. When he turned on that smile of his, he could convince almost anyone to do almost anything.

All that made him a great salesman, or it would have if he weren’t also a total stoner who quickly grew bored with whatever he was doing. In addition to hitting the gym, he also smoked weed almost every day. He couldn’t hold a job for more than about six months, but he could flash that smile and wink, and he would get hired somewhere else. As a result, he was serially unemployed and irretrievably irresponsible.

As a result, we never had much money, but then we didn’t starve either. He always managed to come up rent money, late perhaps, but the bill was always paid, often by me. For by the time I was fourteen, I was managing the checkbook, as well as the rest of the household, the shopping, the cooking, the cleaning. I guess it’s unusual for a fourteen-year-old daughter to put her father on an allowance, but it worked for us.

He was also a single father. My mom died when I was three; I don’t really remember her. What I think are flashes of memory may only be reconstructions of scenes from old photographs. He struggled as a single dad, but I think overall he did okay at raising me. At least I think I turned out all right. The issues I have are no worse than anyone else’s, and I’m a lot better off than a lot of people.

When did we start fucking? The night of our first sexual experience we were watching TV. I don’t really remember what program, some reality show, I think. I was curled up on the couch, my head in my dad’s lap like I usually did when we were watching TV, when I noticed his penis was getting hard. I could feel it against my cheek. I didn’t know what to do. I was surprised, but not upset or disgusted. More curious than anything else.

I’m not what you would call a very sexual being. Don’t get me wrong; I like sex. I like it a lot, and it’s an important part of my life. But I don’t get horny and want to have sex. Instead, I start getting physically intimate, and only then do I get horny. I know some girls, my best friend Puck for instance, who have been masturbating since they were like five years old. I didn’t start masturbating until I was a teen, and then not a lot. Even today I don’t do it often. That night, I wasn’t horny, at least not at first. I had never seen a penis in real life, and I really wanted to know what one felt, and tasted, like. Not because I was horny, just because I wondered what all the fuss was about.

Well, dad shifted his leg so my head was lying on his thigh. I don’t know what was going on inside his head, but I think he was embarrassed.

I don’t know why I did what I did next, but I lifted up my head, reached over, and started to unzip his fly.

“What are you doing, Riley?”

“I want to see it.”

“It’s not right.”

I have always been an impetuous girl. I kept on unzipping his fly, and he didn’t stop me. I really wanted to know what a hard cock looked like.

He wasn’t wearing any underwear, and there it was, standing straight and tall. I found it oddly beautiful, and it looked utterly huge to my inexperienced eyes. Since then I’ve learned that it was bigger than most.

“Can I touch it?”

“No, it’s not right.”

I didn’t obey. I just had to know what a cock felt like. I reached over and encircled the shaft with one hand. It was warm, firm but yielding, like an iron rod covered with foam rubber. I looked up at Daddy, and he stared back, not angry, not encouraging; it clearly felt good to him, and it felt good to me, too.

I turned by eyes back to that magnificent cock, and I slowly started to stroke it. Dad moaned. I reached over with my other hand, and I could get both around the shaft, with the head peeking out from the top. As I stroked it, something weird started happening to me. I started to have this craving in my gut, like being hungry but not that exactly. At the same time my pussy started to feel warm. I wanted ... no, I yearned ... for something, but I didn’t know what.

I kept pumping his cock, and in a minute or two he spewed his gunk several inches in the air, with it landing on my hands and his cockhead.

“That’s enough,” he said, firmly but with no trace of anger. He quickly stood up and, tucking his cock back into his pants, left the room.

I just sat there for a minute. Then I looked at the semen covering my hands. It was whitish gray. I sniffed it; it smelled musky and strangely inviting. I touched a glob with a finger, and it was kind of slimy. Then I touched my tongue to it; it tasted salty. I started licking my hands clean. It had a weird consistency, but it wasn’t unpleasant. In fact, it tasted kind of good. Then I realized what it was—my dad’s sperm—and a shudder of forbidden excitement ran through me, and the yearning sensation in my gut grew stronger.