Raw Prose
Copyright© 2026 by Kinjite
Chapter 13: Discovery & Aftermath
Incest Sex Story: Chapter 13: Discovery & Aftermath - Vic is fourteen when she decides she wants her father — not in the way daughters are supposed to. She gets what she wants. What she doesn't expect is everything that comes after: four years of something that starts transactional, turns intimate, and gets complicated by guilt, a best friend who doesn't know, real ambition, and the question of what she's willing to sacrifice for what she wants. Coming of age was never supposed to look like this.
Caution: This Incest Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/ft Consensual Romantic Heterosexual School Incest Father Daughter Cream Pie First Pregnancy Size AI Generated
Age 17 | June - August
Dad and I were in his study when I heard the car in the driveway.
Didn’t register at first. Mom’s shift wasn’t supposed to end until seven—hadn’t ended before seven once in the three weeks since school let out. Since my birthday. Since summer settled into its routine of empty houses and long afternoons.
I was on top of him. Moving slow. His hands on my hips, guiding. We had hours, or thought we did. No rush.
The car door slammed.
We both froze.
That wasn’t right. Mom never slammed her car door. She was always careful, quiet, conscious of the neighbors.
Footsteps on the front walk. Fast. Not her usual exhausted shuffle after a twelve-hour shift.
My heart kicked hard against my ribs.
“Vic—” Dad started.
The front door opened.
I should have moved. Should have gotten off him. But my body wouldn’t respond. Paralyzed. Brain screaming move move move but nothing happening.
The study was right off the entryway. Door open. We were completely visible.
Mom’s footsteps stopped.
I knew without looking. Knew she was standing there. Knew she could see everything.
Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Just: no no no please no—
I turned my head.
Mom stood in the entryway. Purse sliding off her shoulder. Keys still in her hand. Face—
I’ll never forget her face.
Not angry. Not shocked. Just—emptying. Like someone was erasing her expression in real time. Mouth opening slightly. No sound coming out. Eyes going flat and dead.
I was still on top of Dad. Still connected to him. Naked from the waist down. His hands frozen on my bare hips.
Nobody moved.
Time stretched. Three seconds. Four. Felt like hours.
My brain was fragmenting: This isn’t happening this can’t be happening say something do something fix this—
But there was nothing to say. Nothing to do. She’d seen everything.
Mom made a sound. Small. Broken. Like something inside her tore.
She stepped backward. Hand still on the doorknob. Eyes still locked on us.
Then she turned.
Ran.
Front door slamming. Car door. Engine starting.
Tires screeching on pavement.
Gone.
I couldn’t move.
Dad’s hands tightened on my hips for a second—reflex, not intention—then released.
“Get up,” he said. Voice hoarse. “Vic, get up.”
I couldn’t. Body not responding. Still straddling him. Still frozen.
“Victoria.” Urgent now. Almost panicked. “Get up.”
That broke through.
I lifted myself off him. Stumbled backward. Nearly fell.
My shorts were on the floor by the couch. Underwear somewhere. Couldn’t see it. Didn’t matter.
Pulled on shorts. Hands shaking so hard I couldn’t work the button. Left it undone.
Grabbed my shirt. Inside out. Didn’t care.
Dad was pulling on jeans. T-shirt. Moving fast but his hands were shaking too.
We stood there.
His study. Same room we’d been in a thousand times. Suddenly felt like a crime scene. Evidence everywhere—my bra in the corner, his belt on the floor, the couch cushions pushed askew.
“Fuck.” Dad’s voice was barely a whisper. “Fuck fuck fuck—”
He pulled out his phone. Tried calling.
I watched him. Phone to his ear. Waiting.
Straight to voicemail.
He tried again.
Voicemail.
“She turned it off,” he said. Not to me. To himself. “She turned off her phone.”
My legs gave out. I sat on the couch. The same couch where minutes ago—
Couldn’t finish the thought.
Dad tried calling again. Same result.
“What do we do?” My voice sounded strange. High and thin.
“I don’t know.”
“Where did she go?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is she calling the police right now?”
“I don’t—” He stopped. Looked at me. “I don’t know, Vic.”
My whole body started shaking. Couldn’t stop it. Teeth chattering.
“You’re going to jail,” I said. “She’s calling them right now and you’re going to jail and—”
“We don’t know that.”
“Yes we do. She has to. If she doesn’t, she could—she’s a nurse, she has to report—”
“Maybe not. Maybe she just needs time to—”
“She saw everything.” My voice cracked. “There’s no maybe. She saw me on top of you. She knows.”
Dad sank onto the couch beside me. Head in his hands.
We sat there.
Time passed. I don’t know how long. Could have been ten minutes. Could have been an hour.
Finally Dad straightened. Tried calling again.
Voicemail.
I pulled out my phone. Tried texting.
Mom please talk to me
Sent.
Stared at the screen. No read receipt. No typing indicator.
Tried again.
Where are you? Are you okay?
Nothing.
Please just tell me you’re safe
Sent.
The messages sat there. Delivered. Not read.
“She’s not going to answer,” I said.
“Give her time.”
“How much time? What if she’s—”
“She’s not calling the police.”
“How do you know?”
He didn’t answer. Because he didn’t know. Was just hoping.
I kept staring at my phone. Willing it to light up. Show me Mom was reading my messages. Show me anything.
Nothing.
An hour passed.
Dad tried calling twice more. Voicemail both times.
I sent more texts. None of them read.
We sat on the couch not touching. Not talking. Just: waiting.
My thoughts were spiraling:
She’s at a police station right now, telling them everything.
They’re going to arrest him.
What happens to me?
Do I go with them, or do I tell them it was my fault—would that even help?
They’d say I’m the victim, that I don’t understand. But I do understand. I wanted this. I started it.
Does that matter legally?
No. He’s my father. That’s all that matters.
How long do you go to jail for this?
Years. Decades.
I’ll be thirty before he gets out.
If he gets out.
My chest was so tight I couldn’t breathe right. Shallow gasps.
Dad noticed. “Vic. Breathe.”
“I am breathing.”
“No. You’re hyperventilating. Slow down.”
I tried. Couldn’t.
He moved closer. Put his hand on my back. “In through your nose. Count to four.”
I tried. Managed three counts before gasping again.
“Good. Again.”
We did it together. Him counting. Me trying to breathe.
Eventually my chest loosened. Air moving again.
“Okay?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
We sat there.
His hand was still on my back. Warm. Steady.
I wanted to lean into him. Wanted him to hold me. But that felt dangerous now. Like touching would make it worse somehow.
I pulled away slightly. His hand dropped.
Evening came.
Six o’clock. Seven.
Mom still not home. Not answering.
The light outside changed. Golden. Then orange. Then gray.
Dad ordered pizza at some point. I don’t remember agreeing to it.
The delivery guy knocked. Dad answered. Paid. Brought the boxes inside.
They sat on the coffee table. Neither of us moved to open them.
“You should eat something,” Dad said.
“I can’t.”
“Try.”
I opened a box. The smell of pepperoni and grease made my stomach lurch.
Closed it again.
We sat there as the pizza got cold.
Around nine I stood up.
“I’m going to my room.”
Dad looked at me. “Okay.”
“Will you—if she comes back—”
“I’ll tell you.”
I went upstairs.
Lay on my bed in the dark. Stared at the ceiling.
Tried to imagine where Mom was right now.
Hotel room? Crying?
Friend’s house? Telling someone?
Police station? Filling out a report?
Didn’t know. Couldn’t know.
Just: waiting.
My phone was in my hand. Kept checking it. Still no read receipts on my texts.
I pulled up her contact. Stared at her photo—smiling, hair down, taken at my birthday dinner last year. Before everything.
Pressed call.
Voicemail. Her voice bright and professional: “You’ve reached Jennifer Harris. I can’t come to the phone right now, but leave a message and I’ll get back to you.”
The normalcy of it hurt.
Three days ago she was just Mom. Making breakfast. Complaining about her shift. Normal.
Now she was gone and I didn’t know if she was ever coming back.
I didn’t leave a message. Just hung up.
Lay there in the dark.
Heard Dad moving around downstairs. Footsteps. Water running. Cabinet opening and closing.
He wasn’t sleeping either.
Neither of us could.
We were both just: waiting.
I must have dozed eventually because I woke up to gray light through my window.
Six-something. Maybe seven.
Went downstairs.
Dad was in the kitchen. Coffee already made. Face gray. Eyes red and swollen. Hair sticking up like he’d been running his hands through it all night.
He looked ten years older than yesterday.
“Any word?” My voice came out hoarse.
“No.”
He tried calling again while I watched. Phone to ear. Waiting.
Voicemail.
He hung up. Set the phone on the counter like it might bite him.
I tried texting again.
Mom I’m scared. Please just tell me you’re okay.
Sent.
Delivered. Not read.
We stood in the kitchen not looking at each other.
Dad poured coffee. Handed me a mug. I took it but didn’t drink.
He’d made toast. Two pieces on a plate. Neither of us touched them.
The clock on the stove said 7:43.
Felt like years since yesterday afternoon.
“What if she doesn’t come back?” I said quietly.
“She will.”
“How do you know?”
He didn’t answer. Because he didn’t.
Long silence.
I set my coffee down. Wrapped my arms around myself. “What happens if she calls the police?”
“I don’t know.”
“They’d arrest you.”
“Probably.”
My throat closed up. “For how long?”
“Vic—”
“How long would you go to jail?”
He closed his eyes. “I don’t know. Years. It depends.”
“On what?”
“On what she tells them. On what you tell them. On a lot of things.”
“What happens to me?”
He opened his eyes. Looked at me. Really looked. “You’d be okay. They’d put you with family or—”
“I don’t have family. Just you and Mom.”
“Foster care, then. Or—”
“Foster care.” The words tasted wrong.
“You’d be safe,” he said. “That’s what matters.”
“I don’t want to be safe. I want—” I stopped.
Couldn’t finish. What did I want? For none of this to have happened? For Mom to not have seen? For everything to go back to normal?
There was no normal anymore.
“I’m scared,” I said. Voice breaking.
“I know. Me too.”
We stood there in the kitchen and I wanted him to hug me wanted him to tell me everything would be okay but he didn’t move and neither did I because touching felt like proof of guilt felt like making it worse.
So we just stood there.
Separate.
Scared.
Waiting.
The Second Day
Same routine.
Waking up—if you could call it that. I’d slept maybe two hours total.
Downstairs. Coffee. Toast nobody ate.
Dad trying to call. Voicemail.
Me trying to text. No response.
The house felt wrong. Too quiet. Too empty. Like we were already living in the after.
After Mom left.
After the police came.
After everything ended.
I stayed in my room most of the day. Couldn’t focus on anything. Tried reading—same page over and over, words not connecting. Tried writing—stared at blank page for an hour, wrote one sentence, deleted it.
Just: waited.
Evening came.
Dad knocked on my door around six. “I made dinner.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You have to eat something.”
I went downstairs anyway.
He’d made pasta. Sauce from a jar. Two plates on the table.
We sat. Picked at it. Neither of us really eating.
“This is killing you,” I said.
He looked up. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not.”
“Vic—”
“You look like you’re dying.”
He set his fork down. “What do you want me to say?”
“I don’t know. Something.”
“There’s nothing to say. We’re waiting. That’s all we can do.”
“I hate this.”
“I know.”
“I hate not knowing where she is. I hate not knowing what she’s doing. I hate—” My voice cracked. “I hate that this is my fault.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“Yes it is.”
“No. It’s mine. I’m the adult. I’m your father. This is on me.”
“We both wanted it.”
“That doesn’t matter.”
“It does to me.”
He looked at me. Tired. Sad. “I know.”
We sat there.
Pasta getting cold.
I pushed my plate away. Went back to my room.
Lay in bed and cried for the first time since it happened.
Not loud. Just: quiet tears running into my pillow.
I’d broken everything.
Mom was gone.
Dad might go to jail.
Our family was destroyed.
And it was because I couldn’t stop wanting something I shouldn’t want.
The Third Day
Friday.
Three days since Mom walked in.
I woke up at dawn. Exhausted but unable to sleep anymore.
Went downstairs.
Dad was already up. Sitting in the living room. Staring at nothing.
He looked worse. Face gaunt. Eyes hollow.
I sat beside him. Not close. Just: nearby.
“She’s not coming back,” I said.
“She will.”
“It’s been three days.”
“I know.”
“Where is she?”
“I don’t know.”
My hands were shaking. I pressed them between my knees. “Are the police coming?”
“I don’t know.”
“When will we know?”
“I don’t know, Vic.” His voice broke. “I don’t know anything.”
Neither of us spoke. Both of us falling apart.
Then: car in the driveway.
We both froze.
I ran to the window. Dad stood up behind me.
Mom’s car.
She sat there. Engine off. Just sitting.
Minutes passed. Neither of us moved. Just: watching.
Finally Mom opened the car door.
Got out slowly. Like every movement hurt.
Started walking toward the house.
“She’s coming in,” I whispered.
My heart was pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat.
Dad moved toward the hallway. I followed.
We stood there. Both of us. Waiting.
The front door opened.
Mom stood in the doorway. Keys in hand. Purse slipping off her shoulder.
She looked at Dad first. Her face was completely empty. Not angry. Not sad. Just—gone.
Then she looked at me.
“I need to talk to Victoria.” Her voice was flat. Dead. “Alone.”
Dad opened his mouth.
“Don’t.” Mom’s voice didn’t rise. Didn’t need to. “Just don’t. Go to your office. Close the door. I’ll tell you when we’re done.”
He looked at me. Like he was asking permission. Or apologizing. I couldn’t tell.
I nodded slightly.
He walked to his office. Door closing quietly behind him.
Mom walked past me to the kitchen table. Sat down.
I followed. Sat across from her.
She looked like she’d aged twenty years.
Dark circles under her eyes so deep they looked like bruises. Hair pulled back in the same messy bun but greasier, like she hadn’t showered in days. Scrubs clean but wrinkled—she’d changed but not washed them, or had been wearing them for too long.
I could smell her from across the table. Coffee and hospital antiseptic and something sour underneath. Sweat or fear or both.
When she looked at me, her eyes were red-rimmed and hollow.
I’d never seen my mother look like this. Like something fundamental had broken inside her and she was just ... operating on autopilot.
It scared me more than anger would have.
“How long?” she said.
My throat was so dry I could barely speak. “What?”
“How long has this been happening?”
I thought fast. Had to lie. Had to make it recent enough to be believable but long enough to explain what she saw.
“Since the start of the year.”
She stared at me. “The start of the year.”
“January. Around then.”
“Six months.”
“Yeah.”
Long silence.
She was looking at my face like she was searching for something. The lie maybe. Or the truth underneath it.
“You were on top of him,” she said quietly, “like you’d done it a hundred times.”
My stomach dropped.
“We’d had ... time. To get comfortable.”
“Comfortable.” She repeated the word like it was foreign. “You’re seventeen years old and you’re comfortable fucking your father.”
Hearing her say it like that—clinical, brutal—made me flinch.
“It’s not—”
“Don’t.” Her voice cracked. “Don’t try to make this sound like something it’s not.”
I couldn’t speak.
She closed her eyes. Breathed in slowly through her nose. Opened them.
“Does he force you?”
“No.”
“Does he threaten you? Tell you you’ll get in trouble if you tell anyone?”
“No. It’s not—”
“Does he hurt you?”
“No.”
“Has he ever?”
“No. Mom, it’s not like that. It’s—”
“What?” She leaned forward. “What is it like, Victoria? Explain it to me. Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like your father has been raping you for six months and I never saw it.”
“He’s not—it’s not rape. I wanted it.”
“You’re seventeen. You can’t consent to this.”
“That’s just legally. I know what I want.”
“No. You don’t. You think you do. You think you’re making choices. But you’re not.” Her hands were shaking. She pressed them flat on the table. “He’s your father. He has power over you that you can’t even see. Every time he touches you, he’s using that power. Even if you think you want it.”
“That’s not true.”
“You can’t see it because you’re inside it.”
“I’m not some victim who doesn’t understand—”
“That’s exactly what you are.”
“No.”
“Victoria—”
“I’m not.” My voice was rising. Couldn’t control it. “I chose this. I wanted this. I’m not some helpless little girl who got manipulated. I knew what I was doing.”
She was quiet for a long moment.
Then: “When did you start wanting it?”
The question caught me off guard.
“What?”
“You said you chose this. You wanted it. So when did you start wanting it? When did you start looking at your father and thinking—” She stopped. Couldn’t finish.
I couldn’t answer.
Because the real answer was: I don’t know. Sophomore year? Junior year? It had been gradual. Slow. By the time I recognized what I was feeling it was already there.
But I couldn’t say that.
“January,” I said. “That’s when it started.”
“That’s when you fucked him. I’m asking when you started wanting to.”
I didn’t answer.
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