Raw Prose
Copyright© 2026 by Kinjite
Chapter 9: Trust
Incest Sex Story: Chapter 9: Trust - 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 15 | November
Madison’s bedroom. Door locked. Her face blotchy from crying.
She’d just said it. The thing she’d asked me over to tell me.
I’m pregnant.
I stared at her. My mind blank. Trying to process.
“How far?” My voice came out weird. Too quiet.
“Three months. Almost.”
“Three—Madison, that’s—”
“I know.” She wiped her face with her sleeve. “I know.”
I watched her cry. Still didn’t know what to do.
“Who?” I asked quietly.
She looked at me. Then away.
“My uncle. The one who was staying with us.”
I went still. The kiss on the porch. The way they’d looked at each other. I’d known something was happening. But this—
“Does he know?”
She shook her head. “He’s gone. He left in August. Got a job in another state. He doesn’t—he doesn’t know.”
“Who?”
“My uncle. The one who was staying with us.”
“Madison—”
“Don’t.” She stood up. Paced to the window. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m—like I didn’t know what I was doing.”
I didn’t say anything.
She turned around. Face blotchy. Eyes fierce.
“I wanted it. Okay? I know how that sounds. I know. But I wanted it. I—” Her voice broke. “I thought I did.”
“What happened?”
She sat back down. Pulled her knees to her chest.
“It started in July. He’d come talk to me at night. After my parents went to bed. Just talk at first. About his divorce. About feeling like he’d failed. About starting over.” She picked at her thumbnail. “He made me feel—like he actually saw me. Like I wasn’t just a kid.”
I stayed quiet.
“Then one night he kissed me.” She said it soft. Almost like she was telling herself. “I kissed him back. And then—then it just kept happening.”
“Where?”
“My room. When everyone was asleep.” She looked at me. “I know what you’re thinking. But it wasn’t—he didn’t force me. He’d ask if I was okay. If I wanted to. I always said yes.”
“How long?”
“Six weeks. July into August. Almost every night after my parents went to bed.”
She pulled her knees tighter to her chest.
“I thought he’d stay. He kept saying he would. Then one day he just—he got the job offer and left. Didn’t even tell me he was applying. Just packed up and drove away.”
Her voice cracked.
“He texted me once after he left. Said he missed me. I wrote back. He never responded.”
“Madison—”
“Sometimes it felt really good, Vic.” She looked at me. “Is that fucked up? That I still think about that? About how he’d—” She stopped. Shook her head. “Never mind.”
“You loved him.”
“I still do.” She started crying again. “I still fucking love him and he’s gone and I’m pregnant and I can’t—I can’t tell my parents. They’ll call the police. He’ll go to jail. My family will—everything will explode.”
I moved closer. Put my arm around her. She leaned into me.
We sat like that for a long time.
“What do you need?”
“An abortion.” Her voice shook. “I need—I need an abortion. I can’t have a baby. I can’t. I’m fifteen. What am I supposed to do? Drop out? Raise it? Give it to—” She stopped. Pressed her hands over her face. “I can’t think about it. I just need it gone.”
“Okay.”
“But I don’t have money. And the clinic here requires parental consent. The only one that doesn’t is like ninety minutes away. Across the state line. And I don’t have a car. I don’t have—” She was spiraling. “I don’t have anyone who can help me.”
“Yes you do.”
She looked at me.
“You have me.”
“You can’t—you can’t drive. You don’t have money either.”
“No. But I know someone who does.”
“Who?”
I thought about Dad. About his office. About the locked door and the condoms in his desk drawer and all the careful lies we told Mom.
About whether I could ask him for this. Whether he’d help.
“My dad.”
I lay in bed that night staring at my ceiling.
Madison’s face kept replaying. The way she’d cried. The way she’d said I still love him.
Three months pregnant. Her uncle’s baby. Uncle who was gone. Who didn’t know. Who’d left her to deal with this alone.
I thought about her saying it felt good sometimes. About how confused she was. How she couldn’t tell if what happened was wrong because parts of it hadn’t felt wrong.
I knew that feeling.
But this wasn’t about me.
Madison needed help. Real help. Money and a car and an adult who wouldn’t call the police the second they found out.
I ran through options in my head.
Jenna? No. Her parents would get involved. They’d tell Madison’s parents.
Other friends? Same problem.
School counselor? Mandatory reporter. She’d have to call someone.
Mom?
I almost laughed. Mom would lose her mind. Would call the police before Madison finished explaining. Would lecture about responsibility and safety and making good choices.
That left Dad.
I pressed my hand to my stomach. Swallowed.
Would he help? Or would he say this was too risky? Too illegal? Too much?
Which version of him would show up—the one who locked his office door and fucked me on his desk, or the one who made me pancakes and asked about my homework?
He had money. He could drive. He wouldn’t immediately call the police.
At least I didn’t think he would.
God, I didn’t actually know.
I knew what he wanted from me. Knew what he was willing to risk for that.
But this was different. This was me asking him to help my friend. Someone he didn’t know. Someone who had nothing to do with us.
No benefit to him. Just risk.
I pressed my hands over my face.
Tomorrow. I’d ask him tomorrow.
And hope like hell he said yes.
Because if he didn’t, I had nothing.
Saturday night. Mom left for work at ten.
I waited in my room until I heard her car pull away. Then waited another ten minutes.
Finally went downstairs.
Dad’s office door was cracked open. Light spilling into the hallway.
I knocked.
“Yeah?”
I pushed the door open.
He was at his desk. Laptop open. Reading something work-related probably. He looked up when I came in.
“Hey, sweetheart. What’s up?”
I stood in the doorway. Hands in my hoodie pockets.
“Can I—can I talk to you about something?”
“Of course.” He closed his laptop. Gestured to the chair across from him. “Sit.”
I sat. Didn’t know how to start.
“Vic?” His voice was gentle. “What’s wrong?”
“I need to ask you for help.” The words came out too fast. “And I don’t have anyone else to ask.”
His expression shifted. Alert now. Concerned.
“What kind of help?”
“My friend—” I stopped. Started again. “Madison. She’s pregnant.”
Dad just looked at me.
“She needs an abortion. But she can’t tell her parents. And the clinic here requires parental consent. There’s one across the state line that doesn’t, but she doesn’t have money. Or a car. Or—” I stopped. Looked at my hands. “She doesn’t have anyone.”
He leaned back in his chair. Thinking.
“How old is she?”
“Fifteen. Same as me.”
“How far along?”
“Three months.”
“Does the father know?”
“No. He’s—he’s gone. Moved away in August.”
Dad leaned back in his chair. “Why can’t she tell her parents?”
I thought about Madison’s face. About her saying they’ll call the police.
“The father is her uncle,” I said quietly. “He was staying with them over the summer. If her parents find out, they’ll—it’ll destroy her family.”
Dad’s jaw tightened. But he didn’t say anything.
Dad was quiet for a long moment. Then he pulled his laptop closer.
I stood. Walked around to his side of the desk.
He opened a new browser window. Started typing.
abortion clinics near me
I watched the results load.
He clicked on the first one. Scrolled through. Found the information page.
“Parental consent required,” he read aloud. “Okay. What state did you say?”
“I don’t know. Just—Madison said across the state line.”
He pulled up a map. Looked at the border.
“Probably here. About ninety minutes.”
He started searching clinics in that area. I pulled out my phone. Started doing the same.
We worked in silence for a few minutes.
“This one,” I said. “Look.”
I showed him my screen. He leaned closer.
“No parental consent required for patients sixteen and over.” He frowned. “She’s fifteen.”
“It says they evaluate on a case-by-case basis.”
He scrolled down. “Cost is five hundred for surgical.”
“Surgical?”
“At three months, medication won’t work anymore. Has to be surgical.”
“Oh.”
He kept reading. “Says it’s a same-day procedure. Sedation. Recovery time about an hour. Then she can go home.”
I watched him process information. Methodical. Calm.
“If we do this, we’re committing a crime.”
I went still.
“What?”
“Transporting a minor across state lines for a medical procedure without parental consent.” He looked at me. “If anyone finds out—if her parents figure it out—there could be legal consequences. For me. For you. For Madison.”
I hadn’t thought about that.
“But—”
“I’m not saying no. I’m just saying we need to be smart about this. Careful.”
“Okay.”
He went back to the website. Clicked on the appointment page.
“They have availability next Saturday. Morning slot. Nine AM.”
“That’s—that’s soon.”
“She’s already twelve weeks. Can’t wait much longer.”
He grabbed a notepad. Started writing things down. Cost. Address. Appointment time.
“We’ll need a cover story for your mom. Why we’re taking Madison somewhere on a Saturday.”
“College tour?” I suggested.
He looked up. “Both of you?”
“Yeah. Looking at State. It’s about two hours away. Close enough.”
“Your mom would believe that?”
“I think so.”
He nodded. Wrote it down.
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