Sex Doll
Copyright© 2026 by Kinjite
Chapter 2: House Rules
Incest Sex Story: Chapter 2: House Rules - I detested my father, a greasy loser I loved to tease, letting him look at what he could never have. I thought I held the power. I never asked what he did with all that wanting, down in the basement, building a copy of me a piece at a time. The copy was only practice. The night I went down there myself he was too big and it hurt and I came around him anyway. He wanted me: fighting, hating it, coming, bred. Then he wore me down to nothing. Nobody saved me. No happy ending.
Caution: This Incest Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/ft NonConsensual Reluctant Heterosexual Fiction Incest Father Daughter Cream Pie First Pregnancy Size AI Generated
By the end of the first week the house had never been so clean, and I hated it, and the fastest way I found to feel better about it was Sara.
“Water,” I said, that first Monday, not looking up from my phone.
She brought it. I let it sit.
“It’s warm.”
“It came from the—”
“It’s warm, Sara. Get me a cold one. From the door of the freezer, not the tap.” She took it back. She ran a new one and I watched her do it, watched the too-smooth way she moved, water like the idea of water finding a glass, and when she set it down I picked it up and found a smudge that wasn’t there. “There’s a mark on it.”
“I’m sorry.” She took it back. Washed it. Dried it on the towel over her shoulder. Set it down again, and stood there with her hands folded, patient, fond, waiting to see what else was wrong. “Better?”
“I guess.”
That was the whole game and I could play it all afternoon. It was the exact thing I did to my father — send him for a thing, reject the thing, send him again — except my father’s face fell a little more each time, and Sara’s face did nothing at all, and I honestly could not decide which one I liked better.
By the end of that week I’d stopped hearing her come and go, which was what got under my skin worst — how fast you get used to being waited on by something. My towel was dry and folded on the warm rail by the time I climbed out of the pool. The charger I lost every single day turned up plugged in by my bed every single night.
Maya and Dahlia came over on the Thursday and lost their minds — Maya making her say things just to hear the flat customer voice, Dahlia filming her fold a fitted sheet into a perfect square for her story — both of them going oh my God, your house, the way people had gone oh my God, your house about my house my whole life. And I sat up on the counter and ran the room the way I ran every room, queen of it, the girl with the robot maid.
Mom loved her out loud, to other people.
She got Sasha Reyes over on the second day, on a reason she made up that morning, so Sasha could sit at our island and watch Sara build the two of them a lunch neither of them touched.
“You honestly cannot tell,” Sasha kept saying, in the flat voice of a woman whose whole afternoon has been ruined. “Vanessa. You can’t even tell.”
“I know.” Mom put her chin in her hand and glowed like she’d made the thing herself. “Sara, sweetheart, the little cucumber sandwiches, the ones with the dill. Sasha’s never had them.”
“I really shouldn’t—”
“You’ll have one.” Not to Sasha. To the room. To me on the stairs, to the whole house, to the shape of her own good luck.
When Sasha’s car finally went down the drive Mom stood at the window and watched it all the way to the road, smiling, and the second it turned out of sight the smile switched off like a lamp, and she told Sara to bleach the guest bath.
I found my father with her three days later.
I’d gone down to the basement for the good scissors, which lived in the junk drawer of his workbench, and the office door was open, and I got two steps in before I understood what I was looking at.
Sara stood in the middle of the room. Not doing anything. Just standing, arms a little out from her sides, and my father was going around her slow with a tablet in one hand, touching her — the side of her face, turning it, the set of her shoulders, the fall of her hair — the way you’d handle a thing you owned and nobody was allowed to touch but you. He had her chin between his thumb and finger, tilting it into the light, and he was so far into it that he didn’t hear me until I said, “Gross.”
He dropped her chin like it was hot.
“You’re supposed to knock,” he said.
“It’s the basement. Nobody knocks at the basement.” I came the rest of the way in, because backing out was losing. “What are you even doing to it.”
“Calibrating.” He put the tablet face-down on the bench, casual, too casual, and stepped between me and her, easy, like it was nothing, except it wasn’t nothing. “The face has forty actuators. They come out of the box wrong. You have to teach it whose house it’s in.”
He wiped his palms down his sweatpants. He was flushed, that high blotchy color he got, and close up in the small room the smell of him was a lot, warm and sour. I stood in it and did not step back and made him be the one to fill the quiet.
“It’s got a face already,” I said.
“It’s got a better one now.” He looked at Sara over my shoulder, and then he looked at me, back and forth, once, comparing something, and I didn’t like it and couldn’t have said why. “Did you want something? You came down for something.”
“Scissors.”
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