Sex Doll
Copyright© 2026 by Kinjite
Chapter 6: What the Panties Hold
Incest Sex Story: Chapter 6: What the Panties Hold - 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
After the sound came up through the floor I stopped waiting for him to slip up and started looking.
Not the office. I couldn’t get in the office. But the office wasn’t the whole basement — there was the laundry room down there too, off the bottom of the stairs before you got to his door, and the laundry room didn’t lock, because who locks a laundry room. That was where my clothes went dirty and came back folded. That was the throat the whole house passed through. If he was doing something to my things, my things had to come back up that throat sometime.
I went down on a Wednesday afternoon while he was at work and Mom was at the club and Sara was upstairs running the vacuum, the sound of it going back and forth over my head like weather.
The laundry room smelled like our detergent, the clean blue smell, and under it, faint, the other smell, his, the way it was faint everywhere down there now. I went through the baskets first. Towels. Mom’s things. My jeans. Nothing. I got down on the floor and looked under the machines and there was lint and a sock and a dead spider, and I almost stopped.
Then I found the bag.
It was behind the dryer, wedged in the gap against the wall where the vent hose ran, a gym bag, navy, one I’d never seen him carry because he never went anywhere you’d need a gym bag. The zipper was half open. I got two fingers in the gap and dragged it out, and it was heavier at the bottom than an empty bag, and I sat back on my heels on the cold floor and opened it the rest of the way.
Underwear. Mine. A lot of it.
Not folded, not clean, not the way it came back to my drawer. Just stuffed in, a wad of it.
I recognized them one at a time the way you’d recognize your own handwriting — the gray ones, the striped ones, a white pair, the red pair I’d told Owen about. Pairs I’d hunted for and given up on. Pairs I hadn’t even missed yet. A whole season of me pulled out of the wash a piece at a time and kept down here in a bag behind the dryer where the house passed through.
I made myself count and stopped at a dozen, and there were more than a dozen. Weeks and weeks of it. This wasn’t one bad night he’d had and hidden and hated himself for. It was a system — patient, a little at a time, wash by wash, hidden and kept and added to under the same roof where he passed me the salt and told me to shower and asked was I not eating.
A thing he did. A thing he’d been doing carefully for as long as there’d been a machine in the house to do it to, and probably before, in whatever smaller way a man like that made do before he had one.
I reached in and took one out. The white pair.
It was stiff.
That’s the thing my hands got before the rest of me did. It didn’t hang the way underwear hangs. It held its own shape in the air, a crumpled shape, cardboard where the cotton should have gone soft.
When I turned it toward the light the front of it was covered, panel and gusset both, in a dried crust that had soaked in and set and gone the color of old candle wax, yellow going to gray, cracked across the folds where something had dried in layers, one over another over another, like he’d come back to the same pair more than once.
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