First Off

First off, I should warn you. If you like stories of fathers and daughters fucking, you might love this story. On the other hand, you might hate it. Same goes if you like stories of rape, murder, and true, true, true, true love...

Hard Stuff

When I turned twenty-one Daddy said I was old enough to have the hard stuff in my after-dinner tea.

“Is this right?” I asked him. I was sitting on the picnic table on our little patio behind the house. I was wearing my nearly transparent nightie. The full moon was big and bright. The bone china teacup was between my legs, steam rising up. I was touching myself.

“That’s right, Baby Doll,” he said. “Just keep playing with your pussy until you feel the cream start to come. Then slide the cup under so you don’t miss a drop.”

I jittered my little lips and my clitty bump just the way Daddy taught me. Pretty soon I could feel the trembles. With every finger-touch, the quivering grew stronger and stronger. My lips got all puffy and slippery and my clit became hard as a pebble. My breath was coming in fast little jerks. I was about to gush.

“Oh, Daddy,” I gasped, “what if I spill?”

“Don’t worry, Honey Pie,” he assured me, “I’ve got plenty more hard stuff ready to pump deep into your darling cunt.”

Lies

All lies. Well, mostly lies.

First off, I wasn’t twenty-one. Nowhere near.

Second off, my father wasn’t like that. Far from it. He was the sweetest, gentlest, kindest man. There wasn’t a crass or cruel bone in his body. So why did I sit on the picnic table out back imagining that scene? Because I wanted him so bad. And part of me didn’t want to want him. So I thought if I made him disgusting ... But the scene in my head didn’t disgust me at all.

Third off, I got off on it. I got off on it so good.

Fourth off, we never had after dinner tea.

High School Sweethearts

Right from the first day of high school, my mom and dad were crazy about each other. They were inseparable. They held hands in the halls between classes and kissed during detention. What could the principal do, give them more detention? That would just mean more kisses. Expel them? He couldn’t expel them because my dad was star pitcher for the baseball team, star quarterback for the football team, star power forward for the basketball team. If they’d had only water polo, they could have expelled him because my dad couldn’t swim a lick. But back then they didn’t have water polo.

The Birds and the Bees

It didn’t take long for my dad and mom to start having sex. They loved each other so much. Dad always wore a condom. Every single time, and there were lots and lots and lots of times. He spent half of what he earned at his part-time job at the auto shop on condoms. My mom got pregnant anyway. Lucky me!

Just One Bee

One fucking bee. Mom and Dad got married the summer before their senior year. I was there, in my mom’s womb, three or four months along. I don’t remember it. I don’t remember anything of those first couple of years, but Dad and Mom were happy, happy, happy, and so was I, or so I’m told. “You were adorable.” My dad said so, so it must be true.

“How come there are no pictures?”

“I don’t know—I guess we couldn’t afford a camera. Or we just didn’t think of it. We were just too happy.”

Too happy—maybe that was the problem. They went on picnics. Picnics were cheap, and there was a wonderful picnic grounds at Love Grove near the old quarry. It was a make-out spot at night, but daylight hours during the week hardly anyone ever went there. They could grill hot dogs and after waiting an hour take a dip in the old quarry, except my dad didn’t swim. They could make love out of doors while I gurgled myself to sleep on a nearby blanket—didn’t have to wait an hour for that.

They were making love when Mom got stung by the bee. She swelled up so much she couldn’t breathe. She was dead before dad could really do anything. It must have been the worst nightmare. I’m glad I don’t remember anything about it. I think Dad must have thought at first that Mom was having an orgasm. Sometimes when I’m having an orgasm, or just about to, that’s what pops into my mind. And sometimes I wish it had been me who got stung and swelled up and died. Mom and Dad could have made another me. Dad and me can’t make another Mom.

Just You and Me, Kid

Because of his athletic skills, after graduating high school, Dad had several scholarship offers, but because he hadn’t played his senior year, most were meager. He decided not to go to college: it wouldn’t be the responsible thing to do with a young bride and a hungry baby to feed, so he kept his job at the garage. He loved cars and was good with engines. After Mom died, Dad’s parents watched me during the day.

Mom’s parents moved to Florida. They sent me cards for Christmas and my birthdays, always with a check for ten dollars. My only real memory of them is from the one time they visited. I was about four, and Grandpa said, “Why she’s the spittin’ image of—” and Grandma said, “Hush,” and then she started crying. Grandpa said, “Well, she is!” and Grandma left the room. I guess Grandma blamed me for the bee. For a long time I puzzled over “spittin’ image,” and when I’d see a boy spit at school or a man spit on the street, I’d think of that and remember Mom’s parents. That’s about the only time I’d think of them.

One day Grandma and Grandpa, my dad’s parents, took me to get tested to see if I had the same allergy. I didn’t. I was never afraid of bees. There were tons of them in Grandma and Grandpa’s backyard, and when they landed on the fuzzy pink clover blooms I’d put a mayonnaise jar over them and watch them buzz angrily. Sometimes I’d tip the jar over and then run like crazy, and sometimes I’d just let the bee die.

It seems like it was always summer. After work, Dad would come to Grandma and Grandpa’s house and wash up and then we’d all have supper. Usually Dad would stick around awhile. He’d sit on the porch with Grandpa listening to the baseball games and I’d run around the backyard barefoot chasing lightning bugs. The longer we stayed, the better, because if it got late enough I’d fall asleep in the back seat of the car and Dad would carry me up to bed—we had a little second floor apartment in those days, and it was really hot. I’d pretend to be asleep so I didn’t have to brush my teeth. Lots of times in the mornings I’d wake up in Dad’s bed. I don’t know exactly how that happened. Probably I’d wake up in the middle of the night having to pee and after peeing I’d just gravitate to his bed. In the morning I’d listen to him taking a shower. I liked the sound of him in the shower. Sometimes he’d sing, and that made me laugh. After he was dried off and shaved and dressed in his work clothes, he’d get me dressed and he’d hustle me off to Grandma and Grandpa’s for breakfast. Sometimes at Grandma and Grandpa’s I’d pretend I was shaving. I’d use a popsicle stick. Sometimes I’d try to pee standing up. Grandma scolded me for the mess.

Once I started school, we didn’t go over to Grandma and Grandpa’s all the time. I missed them, but I liked being with my dad. Then Grandma died and we moved in with Grandpa and then Grandpa died. This happened when I was in third and fourth grade. For a long time Dad was sad. In the evenings he’d read on the couch, mysteries and westerns, until he fell asleep. I was big enough to make myself breakfast. The school bus stopped right in front of our house, and usually dad was still home when I left for school.

One day when I came home from school Dad was still on the couch. I had the feeling he’d been crying. “Are you okay?” I asked. He said, “It’s just you and me, kid, so we’d better make the best of it.” He got off the couch and picked me up and hugged me hard. “I love you so much,” he said. “I’m never going to let you go.” That was fine with me. I realized it had been a long time since he’d picked me up like that. But eventually he put me down.

A Curious Mind

I was good in school—so good I skipped two years, grades two and five. I loved all subjects, but especially science. I was going to discover a cure for the common bee sting. At home, through junior high and into high school, I spent a lot of time reading about science on the Internet. “Don’t you want to play with your friends?” Dad sometimes asked.

“I don’t have any friends,” I said.

“Well, you should,” Dad said.

“So should you,” I answered.

It was true. Dad was a loner. He didn’t go out on any dates. He’d come home after work and watch sports on TV. Sometimes after work he’d go jogging. I asked him if I could come with, and he seemed pleased. Whenever the weather was nice (and sometimes when it wasn’t) we’d go for a run after supper. We’d go for miles. I loved those runs, though we’d hardly say a thing—we’d just run. Back home we’d be all sweaty, and Dad always asked if I wanted the first shower, and I always said, “No, you go first, that way I don’t have to rush.” But one time I said, “Why don’t we shower together? It would be much more efficient.” Dad said something like, “Ha, ha, very funny.” A lot of times I’d masturbate in the shower, thinking of Dad, wondering if he’d masturbated just before me. I’d take my time. Sometimes I’d take too long and the water would run cold. It’s hard to come in a cold shower. I’d dry off and lie in my bed and masturbate in my bed. The orgasms were thrilling but not really satisfying. Sometimes, between comes, I’d wonder how I’d feel if my dad started dating again. If he remarried. I wanted him to be happy. Once I had the strange idea that if I started dating, then he would too. But there wasn’t anyone in my class who interested me. I got asked quite a few times, and I always said a polite no, thank you.

I did have a slight crush on my high school science teacher, but it wasn’t him I thought of when I played with myself. I tried once, and it made me laugh. I realized that all my thoughts during sex involved my dad. I looked up incest on-line. I saw lots of stories and pictures, but they didn’t appeal to me. I was more interested in the hard science of it. There weren’t really any answers.

One day in science class I raised my hand to answer a question, and when I was called on, I sneezed. “Sorry,” I said. “I guess I’m coming down with a cold or something.” The teacher nodded. “Or maybe it’s just an allergy,” he said. That made me not like him any more. I knew it was unreasonable. He surely had no knowledge of what had happened to my mom. That night I asked my dad where I was on that day. At first he pretended not to know what I was talking about. “When you drove to the hospital,” I said. “Was I in the car?”

“Yeah, you must have been,” he said. “I guess I don’t remember.”

“Well, I couldn’t have been in the trunk, could I?” I said.

“No,” Dad said. “I’m sure you weren’t in the trunk.”

“Well, where was Mom?”

Dad took a deep breath. “On the backseat,” he said. “She was lying on the backseat.”

“So was I on the backseat, too? Did we have a car seat?”

“No,” Dad said. “I suppose we should have, legally, but—anyway I think I probably bundled you in a blanket and put you on the floor in front.”

“And then when we got to the hospital, did you take me out?”

“Yes,” Dad said, “I’m sure I must have taken you out—otherwise you’d still be there, right?” Then he said, “Why do you want to know all this stuff?”

“I don’t know,” I said, “I guess I’ve just got a curious mind.”

We let it go at that.

The Brand New Car

Daddy was so pleased that I got accepted to every college to which I’d applied. I mean, I was pleased too, but Daddy was extra special pleased, and as a reward, he bought me a brand new car. Well, the car wasn’t brand brand new. It was a restored classic. A convertible. Daddy said when he was a boy, his dad had one just like it, and it was the first car he learned to drive, and the first car he ever ... and then he blushed a little, and I said, “ ... the first car you ever made love to a girl in?” and he blushed even harder, and I said, “Was I made in a car like this?” and he just grinned and his face was like on fire.

Driving around in a car just like the one my mom and dad first fucked in made me excited. The moment I pulled into the driveway, I couldn’t keep from slipping one hand under my skirt. I was so wet! I glanced up at the bedroom window, and I was pretty sure Dad was there watching me. I honked, a little beep-beep just to make sure. And I waved. And I didn’t stop touching myself. I knew if I didn’t stop soon, I was going to leave a little puddle on the seat. But I didn’t stop. I couldn’t. In my imagination, Dad had his hand around his big cock, and he was stroking it in time to the rhythm of my hand between my legs.

But I didn’t want Daddy to come. Not yet. First, I wanted to give him a reward for getting me such an exciting car. Maybe I’d give him an extra specially special blowjob. Or maybe I’d let him fuck me in the ass. Decisions, decisions. Then I got it! I’d give him both: the blowjob and the ass fuck. But in reverse order! That would make him happy. Just the idea of it made me very very happy, and I practically jumped out of the car and hurried into the house—but not before I gave my clitty one last little good luck flick.

But of course he wasn’t upstairs—he wasn’t even home, and I knew he wouldn’t be, and even if he was, it’s my bedroom above the driveway, not his. Upstairs, I left my bedroom door open and lay down in my bed and brought myself off. Afterwards, I wondered if my new car was in fact the same car my parents had had when I was a baby. Dad could very easily have stored it in the garage at work all these years. I wasn’t sure whether I wanted it to be the same car or not. I put my middle finger into my slippery cunt and thought about my dad’s cock. If he fucked me, I wouldn’t let him wear a condom. I’d want him to feel the real me. I’d want to feel the real him.

Digital Dreams

For my dad’s birthday I got him a digital camera. He seemed surprised and pleased. He said he’d never owned a camera before. “I know,” I said. I must have had a sad look on my face; he understood right away that I was thinking about not having any pictures of my mom and him back when I was a baby. There weren’t even any photographs of the wedding, since it had been a private affair at the courthouse.

I showed him how to use the camera, and he snapped picture after picture of me. Then, sitting side by side on the living room couch, we looked at the pictures on the little screen. “If you put them on a computer, they’ll look better,” I told my dad, “or anyway bigger.”

“Okay,” he said, “you look beautiful to me, but next birthday you can get me a computer if you think it will make me look any better.” Then he put the camera on the bookcase next to the couch and asked if I wanted to go for a run.

While we were jogging, I wondered if he’d miss me next fall when I was off at college. I hated to think about it. And all the schools I was really interested in were a long way away.

A week later, and he hadn’t touched the camera. I wasn’t sure what I’d expected. I took the camera out to the picnic table on the back patio. I slid off my shoes and hoisted myself up onto the table and removed my panties. The afternoon sun had been pouring down on the table and it felt nice and warm on my bare bottom. I sat there for a few minutes, just thinking. My father had never spanked me. Could it be I’d never been bad? I wondered what his hand would feel like? What sound the slap would make. I was wearing a short, flower print sheath dress, and I pulled it up just enough, set the self-timer on the camera, pushed the button, and placed the camera between my legs, aimed straight at my cunt.

In a few seconds, the camera pinked, telling me a picture had been taken. I looked at it on the little screen. My clitoris was clearly erect. My little sex lips had curled and darkened and were open just enough that if you knew what you were looking for, you could probably tell I was a virgin. I touched myself until there was enough wetness to well out of the little opening. Then I took another picture. Pink. The moisture glistened. I took three more pictures, pink, pink, pink, the last one after my orgasm. I tried to take one more picture, of my face, just to see what I looked like after I’d come, but the camera was out of memory.