Prison Daddy
Copyright© 2026 by Kinjite
Chapter 2: The First Visit
Incest Sex Story: Chapter 2: The First Visit - Rafael raped his sister Carmen. Esme is their daughter—a child of incest. For fifteen years, Carmen stays silent, believing it will protect her. Rosa believes her imprisoned son deserves family. She arranges the connection. Carmen tried to shield Esme by telling her nothing. Rosa filled the silence with access to Rafael. Rafael filled Esme's void with stories. And Esme filled her womb with his children.
Caution: This Incest Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/ft NonConsensual Rape Reluctant Heterosexual Incest Father Daughter Cream Pie First Pregnancy Voyeurism Size AI Generated
Two days after the letter, Abuela came to my room.
She never came to my room. The apartment was small enough that she’d memorized the layout years ago—kitchen to living room to bathroom, her bedroom at the end of the hall. But my room was chaos. Shoes by the bed, backpack in the corner, clothes I’d meant to hang up draped over my desk chair. Things she could trip over. Things that would hurt if she fell.
But there she was. Standing in my doorway, one hand on the frame for balance.
“Mija.” Her voice was quiet. Careful. “Close the door.”
I got up from my bed. Closed the door until I heard the click.
Abuela was holding an envelope. Not the letter from Uncle Rafael—a different one. Fatter. Older. Soft at the corners from being handled. She was worrying at the edges with her fingers, the same way she did with her rosary beads during novenas.
She held it out to me.
I took it. The envelope was warm from being held close to her body. When I opened it, cash spilled into my palm. Tens and twenties, folded and refolded so many times the creases were splitting. Some of the bills were soft as fabric.
“One hundred and fifty dollars,” Abuela said. “I’ve been saving.”
Her Social Security check was eight hundred and twelve dollars a month. I knew because I’d helped her set up direct deposit last year. Most of it went straight to Mom for rent and groceries and utilities. What was left went to her medications—the blood pressure pills, the cholesterol medication, the supplements her doctor said she needed.
If Abuela had saved one hundred and fifty dollars, she’d been skipping things. Medicine, probably. Telling Mom she’d picked up her prescriptions when she hadn’t. Going without so she could fold twenties into an envelope and hide it somewhere Mom wouldn’t look.
“Abuela—”
“Saturday.” Her voice was steady now. Decided. Like she’d been practicing. “I want to visit Rafael. Your mother works nine to six. She won’t know.”
The apartment was quiet except for the radiator hissing in the corner and the faint sound of Mom’s TV through the wall. One of her crime shows. The kind she fell asleep to because the house felt too empty without noise.
“I can’t go alone.” Abuela’s hand found mine. Squeezed. Her palm was dry, papery thin. I could feel every bone. “My eyes. I can’t read the signs. The trains—I don’t know them anymore. I’ll get lost.”
She was right. Last year she’d tried to go to the pharmacy on 181st by herself and ended up four blocks in the wrong direction, standing on a corner she didn’t recognize, too proud to ask for help until a woman from church happened to see her and walked her home.
“Please, mija.” Her fingers tightened. Desperate. “He’s been waiting ten years. Ten years I couldn’t see him because it was too far, because I couldn’t make the trip. And now he’s close. Now I can reach him. And your mother—”
She stopped. But I knew what she meant.
Mom would never take her. Would never let me take her.
“She’ll be so mad,” I said.
“She doesn’t have to know. We’ll be home before six. Before she even gets off work.” Abuela pulled my hand to her chest. Held it there. I could feel her heartbeat through the thin fabric of her dress. Fast. Unsteady. “I need to see my son. Please.”
The cash was still in my other hand. Warm. Heavy. Bills that smelled like old purses and church collection baskets. Money she’d hidden away dollar by dollar while skipping pills, while going without, while saving for this one thing.
I thought about Uncle Rafael’s letter. I’d really like to know my niece.
“Okay,” I said. “Saturday.”
I found it Wednesday night.
Two in the morning, phone under the blanket so the glow wouldn’t show under my door. Prison families forum. A bus—direct from 125th Street to Greenhaven. $35 round trip. Other families used it. Had been for years.
I showed Abuela the website Friday night, holding the screen close enough for her to make out the shapes.
“A bus?” She squinted. “Is it safe?”
“I looked it up. They’ve been running it for years. Lots of families take it.”
Her fingers worked at the table edge. That deciding thing she did with her hands.
“If you think it’s safe,” she said finally.
“I do.”
“Then we’ll take it.”
Saturday morning Mom left at eight-thirty.
I heard her in the kitchen—coffee maker beeping, keys rattling, the tired sigh she did every morning before work like she was gathering the strength to face the day. Her scrubs were already on when she stuck her head in my room.
“I’ll be back around six,” she said. “There’s leftovers if you get hungry. Rice and chicken in the blue container.”
“Okay.”
She looked at me for a second. Really looked. Like she was trying to read something in my face. Her hand was on the doorframe, fingers tapping a rhythm I recognized—the one she did when she was anxious, when something was bothering her but she didn’t know how to say it.
“You okay?” she asked.
“Yeah. Why?”
“I don’t know. You just seem—” She stopped. Shook her head. “Never mind. I’ll see you tonight. Call me if you need anything.”
“I will.”
She left. The front door closed. The deadbolt turned with that heavy metal sound that meant locked.
I waited. Counted to sixty in my head. Sometimes Mom forgot things—her phone, her thermos, the shopping list she’d made the night before. Sometimes she came back.
But not today.
At sixty I got up. Grabbed the clothes I’d laid out last night. Jeans and a t-shirt and the hoodie that was too warm for May but had pockets deep enough to hide things in.
Abuela was already waiting in the living room. Dressed. Hair combed. Lipstick on.
I’d never seen her wear lipstick before. It was a strange shade of pink, probably from the 80s, applied slightly crooked because she couldn’t see to get it right. But she’d tried. For him. For Rafael.
Her bag was sitting by her feet—small, worn at the handles, packed days ago probably. Her wallet, the visiting paperwork, snacks for the bus ride. Waiting for this.
“Ready, mija?”
“Yeah.”
“Then let’s go.”
We took the subway to 125th. Got there early.
There was already a line.
Twenty, maybe twenty-five people. Mostly women. Some with kids—little ones holding their mothers’ hands, teenagers slumped against the wall with headphones in, trying to pretend they weren’t here, weren’t doing this, weren’t the kind of people who visited prisons on Saturday mornings.
A few older women like Abuela. One man, maybe sixty, wearing a veteran’s cap.
And all of them had this look. This resignation. Like they’d made this trip so many times it had worn grooves into their faces.
A bus idled at the curb. Plain white, unmarked except for a small sign in the window: GREENHAVEN.
“Is this it?” Abuela asked.
“I think so.”
We got in line behind a woman in a puffy jacket and sweatpants that said JUICY across the back in rhinestones. She was scrolling through her phone, long acrylic nails clicking against the screen. Her makeup was perfect—contoured, highlighted, lips glossy. Like she was going to a club instead of a prison.
The line moved slowly. People showed IDs to a woman with a clipboard, paid cash, got on the bus.
When we reached the front, the woman looked up. Her eyes were flat. Bored. Like she’d seen a thousand versions of us and would see a thousand more.
“Names?”
“Rosa Rivera and Esme Rivera.”
She scanned her list. Found us. “Visiting?”
“Rafael Rivera.”
She made a checkmark. “Seventy dollars.”
Abuela pulled cash from her purse. Three twenties, a ten. Bills she’d been saving. Going without things so she could afford this.
The woman counted it. Gave back a receipt. “Get on. Bus leaves in ten.”
Inside, the bus smelled like coffee and perfume and something else underneath—stale air, old upholstery, too many bodies pressed into too small a space. The smell of desperation, maybe. Of need.
I found us two seats near the middle. Abuela sat by the window. I took the aisle.
A younger woman—maybe mid-twenties, pretty, with box braids and gold hoops—dropped into the seat in front of us. Already on her phone. FaceTiming someone.
“I’m on the bus, baby. Yeah. I got you the Hot Cheetos like you wanted. And Skittles. And—baby, I can’t get you cigarettes, you know they check everything.” Pause. Listening. “I know, I know. I’ll see what I can do.”
She hung up. Turned around, caught me watching.
“First time?” she asked.
“Yeah.”
“It gets easier.” She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Who you seeing?”
“My uncle.”
“That’s nice. Family visits are important.” She held up her left hand. A thin gold band. “I’m seeing my husband. Been going two years now. Every other weekend. We got married last month. Ceremony in the visiting room and everything.”
“Congratulations.”
“Thanks, girl.” She studied me for a second. “You’re young, though. High school?”
“Sophomore.”
“Damn.” She shook her head. “Welcome to the club nobody wants to be in.”
She turned back around without waiting for a response.
The bus kept filling. Every seat taken. The driver climbed on—heavy man, gray beard, Mets cap—shut the doors, pulled into traffic.
Abuela dozed beside me almost immediately. Head against the window. Breathing steady.
I watched the city disappear. Harlem, then the Bronx, then highway, then trees, then nothing.
Two and a half hours. The bus slowed. The parking lot.
And then I saw it.
The prison didn’t look like the movies. It looked worse.
Gray concrete walls, tall enough to block out the sky. Razor wire coiled along the top of the fences, catching the light, glittering like something beautiful instead of something meant to cut you open. Guard towers at each corner, narrow windows like eyes watching everything.
Everything about it looked heavy. Like the walls were holding something down. Like if they ever stopped pushing, something would break free.
“We’re here,” I said.
Abuela’s hand was shaking in mine.
The entrance was through a small building separate from the main facility. A faded sign said VISITOR PROCESSING. Inside it smelled like disinfectant trying to cover something worse underneath—sweat, fear, the particular staleness of places where people wait to be examined, to be judged, to be allowed or denied.
Burnt coffee from a pot that looked like it hadn’t been cleaned in weeks. Brown sludge visible through the glass. I tried breathing through my mouth but then I could taste it.
Plastic chairs lined one wall, all of them bolted to the floor like someone had decided people couldn’t be trusted not to steal chairs from a prison waiting room. Most of them were occupied. Women, mostly. A few men. One woman with two small kids who were already fighting over a broken toy.
A corrections officer sat behind a desk with bulletproof glass between us and her. She was maybe fifty, heavy, with short gray hair and a face that said she’d seen everything and hadn’t been impressed by any of it.
She looked up when we walked in. Looked at me first, then Abuela, then back at me.
“First time?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She slid a clipboard across the narrow opening at the bottom of the glass. “Fill this out. I need ID from both of you.”
I took the clipboard. The form had about thirty boxes—name, address, date of birth, relationship to inmate, reason for visit. Questions that seemed designed to make you think twice. To make you wonder if you really wanted to be here.
I filled it out carefully, trying not to mess up, trying to make my handwriting neat like it mattered. Like if I wrote clearly enough they’d let us through faster.
Abuela sat in one of the plastic chairs. Hands folded in her lap. Lips moving silently. Praying again.
When I finished, I brought the clipboard back with our IDs.
The CO looked over the forms. Checked Abuela’s state ID first—held it up to the light like she was looking for something hidden. Then picked up mine. My school ID from Columbus High School. Last year’s picture where my hair was shorter and I wasn’t wearing makeup and I looked about twelve.
She looked at me. Looked at the ID. Back at me.
“How old are you?”
“Fifteen.”
She made a note on the form. Her pen pressed hard enough that I heard it scratch. “Minors need to be accompanied by an adult. You’re with your grandmother?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She studied me for another second. Her eyes moving over my face like she was trying to read something there. Trying to decide if I knew what I was walking into.
Then she nodded toward a locker on the wall. “Phones, bags, jewelry, anything metal goes in there. You’ll get a key. Pick everything up on your way out.”
I put my phone in the locker. It felt wrong, being disconnected. Like I was cutting the last thread to the real world. To Maya, to school, to the version of me that existed outside this building.
My keys went in. My earbuds. The little silver ring Maya had given me for my birthday with “BFF” engraved on the inside.
The CO locked it and handed me a key on a plastic wristband. The kind hospitals use. The kind they put on people who can’t be trusted to remember who they are.
“Through that door for security screening.”
The metal detector beeped when I walked through.
“Step back,” the guard said. A man this time, older, with a thick neck and gray stubble and eyes that looked bored in a way that made him more intimidating, not less. “Arms out.”
I held my arms out to the sides. Stood there like a target while he moved around me.
He patted me down—shoulders, sides, waist, legs. His hands were quick, impersonal, professional. But I bit the inside of my cheek. I wasn’t used to being touched by strange men. Wasn’t used to being touched at all, really, except by Maya when she hugged me or grabbed my arm to pull me somewhere.
This felt different. Clinical. Like I was being processed.
He waved me through. Did the same to Abuela, gentler but just as thorough.
“Follow the yellow line,” he said. Pointing down a corridor that stretched longer than it should, like perspective was broken here.
The yellow line was painted on the floor. Bright against the gray concrete. Leading deeper into the facility.
We walked. Abuela’s hand on my elbow. Her cane tapping.
Windows ran along one side—thick, reinforced glass looking out onto a concrete yard. Chain-link fences. Men everywhere. Orange jumpsuits and too much free time and eyes that found us immediately.
The first whistle cut through the air. Sharp. High. Animal.
Then another.
Then voices. Overlapping. Words I couldn’t quite make out but the tone was enough. The way they sounded when they looked at me.
I kept my eyes on the yellow line.
“Keep walking,” the female guard escorting us said. She didn’t look at the windows. Didn’t look at me. Just kept walking like this happened every day. Like it was normal.
Another whistle. Louder.
“Yo, mami!”
“Come see me, beautiful!”
“Damn, look at that!”
Laughter. More voices. Someone said something in Spanish—something about my body, my ass, what he’d do if he had five minutes alone with me—and the men around him laughed.
I kept walking. Stared at my feet. At anything except the windows.
But I could feel them looking. Could feel their eyes on me like hands. Touching. Taking. Making me smaller with every step.
“What are they saying?” Abuela asked. Her hearing aids couldn’t pick it up through the glass, through the distance.
“Nothing.” My voice came out wrong. Thin. “Just—nothing.”
“I’ll treat you right, baby!”
“Bring her back next week, abuela!”
“Tell your nieta I’m real nice to young girls!”
More laughter. Louder.
The guard opened a door at the end of the corridor. “Visiting room’s through here.”
I pulled Abuela through fast. The door slammed shut behind us, cutting off the noise.
I pressed my palms against my jeans. Wiped them. My face was burning. I felt dirty. Like I needed a shower. Like their voices had left something on my skin I couldn’t wash off.
“You okay, mija?” Abuela asked.
“Yeah,” I lied. “I’m fine.”
The visiting room was bigger than I expected. Rows of small square tables with plastic chairs, maybe twenty tables total. Vending machines along the back wall humming too loud. Corrections officers stationed in each corner with their arms crossed and faces blank and eyes that never stopped moving.
There were already people here. Families. Mostly women and children. Everyone looked tired. Like they’d made this trip before. Like they’d keep making it.
“Find a table,” the guard said. “Inmate will be brought out shortly.”
We sat at a table near the middle. Not too close to the guards. Not too far. Somewhere that felt anonymous.
Abuela reached for my hand. Held it tight. Her palm was damp now. Or maybe mine was. I couldn’t tell.
“He’ll be here soon,” I said.
She nodded. She was crying a little already. Silent tears running down her cheeks, catching in the wrinkles. Trying not to show it.
A door on the far side of the room opened with a heavy clang. Metal on metal. The sound echoed.
Men started filing out. One at a time. Each going to a different table. Some of them smiled when they saw who was waiting. Some didn’t.
And then I saw him.
Uncle Rafael.
He was tall—taller than I remembered, though I’d been five the last time I saw him. Maybe six-foot or just under. Dark hair going gray at the temples. Broad shoulders. Arms covered in tattoos that disappeared under the short sleeves of his orange jumpsuit. Ink I couldn’t read from here but it covered everything—forearms, backs of his hands, probably more underneath.
He wasn’t old, though. Late thirties maybe. And he looked—good. Fit. Like someone who worked out because there was nothing else to do with the hours.
When he saw us, his whole face changed.
The hardness dropped away. His eyes got wet. His mouth pulled into something that wasn’t quite a smile, wasn’t quite a sob.
He walked over. Not fast. Controlled. But I could see it in the way he moved—the restraint. Like he wanted to run.
He stopped in front of our table.
“Mami,” he said.
His voice cracked on the word. Broke clean in half.
Abuela stood up so fast her chair screeched against the floor. She reached for him, hands out, searching, and he caught her and pulled her into a hug.
To read the complete story you need to be logged in:
Log In or
Register for a Free account
(Why register?)
* Allows you 3 stories to read in 24 hours.