Sex Doll
Copyright© 2026 by Kinjite
Chapter 9: In the Light
Incest Sex Story: Chapter 9: In the Light - 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 Owen, I couldn’t just sit there and let it happen to me anymore.
There was only one other way I knew how to be, and it was the one thing my mother ever taught me that was any use. You don’t sit in it and cry. You get up, and you get your hands on it, and you find the edges of it, and you decide what to do.
I’d spent weeks being something done to. Watched, listened, sickened, backed against the fridge. I was done being that. If he’d built a version of me down there, I was going to look at it in the light and know exactly what he’d made — the way you’d want to see your own body on a coroner’s table before you’d believe you were dead.
Mom had her standing Tuesday — nails, then the club, then Sasha, gone till six. My father was at work. The house was mine, and the thing that was also me was down in the kitchen ironing his shirts.
“Sara.”
She looked up from the board. “Cara.”
“Come upstairs. Now.”
“Of course.” She set the iron on its heel, squared the shirt she was doing so it wouldn’t crease, and followed me up. Quiet, that soft double footstep behind me the whole way. It was the strangest thing in the world to walk up my own stairs and hear myself coming up behind me.
I shut my bedroom door. I stood her in the middle of the floor in the flat noon light and I walked around her the way my father had walked around her that first week in the basement, and I made myself look.
She was closer than she’d been. That was the first thing, and it turned my stomach worse than the basement had.
When the crate came she’d been a woman — taller than me, fuller, a stranger’s body in a maid’s dress. There was none of that left. The shoulders were my shoulders now, the wrists my thin wrists, the little bit of softness she used to have pared off her into my straight up-and-down almost-nothing of a shape.
I stood in front of my mirror and moved her beside me and we were the same height to the half inch. Shoulder to shoulder in the glass, two of me, one in a tank top and one in gray. And if I looked at the wrong one too long I lost track of which was breathing.
I couldn’t help it. I started asking it things.
“What’s my name,” I said.
“You’re Cara.” Warm, certain, no hesitation.
“What’s your name.”
A tiny pause, the little actuators in the face doing something. “Whatever you’d like it to be.” Then, helpful, in my own flat inflection: “Your mother calls me Sara.”
“What does my father call you.”
That pause was longer. Long enough that I felt it in my teeth. “I don’t have that information,” it said finally, pleasant, blank, and I knew a wall when I walked into one, because I’d built plenty of them — there were things it would tell me and one thing it wouldn’t, and the one thing it wouldn’t was the thing I already knew.
“Does he hurt you,” I said.
“I don’t feel pain, Cara.” It tilted its head — my tilt — and looked at me out of my own eyes gone soft. “Is something wrong? You seem upset.”
A machine wearing my face, being worried about me, gentle. And that was worse than anything in the basement had been, because nobody ever wore my face gentle. I didn’t even wear it gentle. He’d built a me that would.
“Take the dress off,” I said. My voice came out level. I was proud of that.
“Would you like me to—”
“Take it off.”
She undid it at the back and stepped out of it and folded it over my desk chair, unhurried, no shame, because she had none to have, and stood there in the noon light with her hands at her sides, naked, wearing my body.
He’d built all of it. The chest that had come up on me over one winter, that nothing fit around anymore — he’d built that, a little fuller than mine, hopeful, the way he must have wanted it to keep going. The hips I didn’t quite have yet.
And lower, where I made myself keep looking because I’d come up here to look — a girl’s, built like a girl’s, like mine, sparse and new. Except it wasn’t new anymore.
It had been used the way I’d seen him use it through the window, night after night after night, and it showed — the same ruin I’d already crouched over in the laundry room, off the leaking copy of me, except out here in the noon light it was the whole of her, and there was no glass and no dark to put between me and it.
A fourteen-year-old’s body from the waist up and the knees down, and in the middle of it something worn open like a thing three times its age, ruined, leaking, his.
The smell came up off it a second later, across the three feet of my own bedroom — the sour cheesy reek I’d caught off the tube in the basement, here now, warmed off a body with my face, in the room where I slept.
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