Cuckold Incest Stories

🔞 ALL INFORMATION CLICK HERE 👈🏻👈🏻👈🏻

Cuckold Incest Stories
An old man & his granddaughter - stories from my childhood
Persian class (Kilaas-e-farsi) — Part 1
Saying goodbye sooner than expected
Ways to Wait: #10 Waiting that Makes Room for Possibility
Factfulness — Why Things Are Better Than You Think
When I was a little girl, my grandfather (my mother’s father) would take me with him while he went grocery shopping for his wife. We would walk down a small road in Dombivili, past the teenage boys playing cricket, past Kamath uncle’s snacks store and uphill towards the flour mill. But first, we would go to the vegetable vendors where he would pick out…
all kinds of stories, self-reflection and memoirs of being

Copyright 2021 © YNaija | All Rights Reserved.
All my preparations and quivering anticipation was to have ended in bliss, the kind only my father could give me… I was my father’s lover and he was mine. Everything was perfect.
I didn’t cry. It was painful what he did, but I didn’t cry. He said it was ok.
I didn’t cry the second time either. I liked it. He was gentler. He told me it was our secret, our special thing, and no one should know about it.
I went to him the third time it happened, it was raining and the thunders scared me. We did it again, I enjoyed it. We began to do it more often, and each time I enjoyed it more.
I was twelve that first time, and a happy child, happier than any other child I knew. I doubt if any other child had so much love. I was my father’s lover and he was mine. Everything was perfect.
 And then, on my twentieth birthday, the unthinkable happened.
My father broke up with me. Just like that. He said it wasn’t right, what we do, and that we must stop. End of matter. It felt like a full stop at the end of an epitaph. It was too sudden.
I had no warning, no premonition. The break up was like death. I had taken the week off from school just to be with the only man in my life, the best man I ever knew, or so I thought. I thought my birthday would have ended sensually, like all the others. It was usually the best birthday present he gives me, a passionate night of love making right out of a romance novel.
It had been a while. My higher education had taken me away. And I sorely missed my beloved father. I went home that day with thoughts of my father obscuring all other thoughts. I arrived late in the evening. He wasn’t home yet. I made myself as adorable as he liked. It was not hard. My allure had never needed much artificial furnishings; a touch here and a touch there, and I would be set to win any beauty contest. That evening I was at my best.
All my preparations and quivering anticipation was to have ended in bliss, the kind only my father could give me.
Instead, I got the shock of my life. That terrible day, I knew exactly how the deer must feel when the hunter’s bullet crashes through its heart. I learnt how it must feel to be shot out of the sky.
I had hoped he didn’t mean it, that this was just another punishment, but the way he said it convinced me it was final. I knew my father; I knew the look on his face. It was the same look he had when he shot Dragon our Alsatian. This was not like before when he would refuse to touch me because I misbehaved. My father had never hit me or scolded me; his punishments were usually more severe and silent. He would simply refuse to touch me for days on end. Such days were hell for me. I could barely survive without him. When he was pleased with me, he really would take his time and give me much pleasure that I never knew was possible.
 I was a very well behaved child; I had all the proper manners for a proper lady. Thanks to my father.
But this was no punishment. This was a cessation. This was my death. I tried to make him see reason, to convince him that we were to be forever. I told him of our joys, our laughs and how love couldn’t be any better. I begged him not to kill his beloved and only child.
 It is true what they say. Men are beasts; unfeeling beasts.
 How could he end something so wonderful, something so perfect? He said he still loved me, but I didn’t believe him, I couldn’t believe that. He couldn’t even look me in the eye when he said it. There must have been a reason, but I didn’t care for whatever it was. I knew it wasn’t about right or wrong, there is no love that can be wrong, especially the kind we had. It was beautiful; we were one, my father and I. Our love transcended that of a father and his daughter. It was the stuff of heaven. No, His reason wasn’t religious, not at all, my father wasn’t that sentimental. I was his sole religion, he worshiped me.
 There was no one else either, I knew that much. My mother died while birthing me. Ever since, I had been my father’s heartbeat. And he was my breath. I never missed my mother. I never knew her, never would meet her. I would, perhaps, have liked to know her, but somehow I thank God she wasn’t with us. It would have been awkward. I don’t think I could have shared my father with any one.
 My father gave no reason for killing me. He couldn’t explain why we could no longer have what we had. There was nothing I didn’t think, there was no thought I didn’t wish to explain his decision by. Something, perhaps, must have happened to his hormones. I couldn’t believe this was my perfect father. I couldn’t believe my day could ever become so dark.
 He only said he was doing it for me, that it was for the best, my best. How could I have ever believed the man loved me? He even looked sad that day, so sorrowful and tired. In better times and in our previous world, I would have taken him in my arms as I was wont, and work my magic on him. Over the years I had learnt his special recipe. I was the only one who knew his mix. I had never asked him, but I sensed that even my mother didn’t take him to the heights I took him.
 But his words belied the sorrow on his features. He had said the break up words so casually, as if he had thought it through and found it a simple matter. There should be a special kind of voice and words for pronouncements of that nature, something equal and suitably terrible. The normalcy and casualness of his words were a negation. It was like mockery. I didn’t know I could ever stop being what I was to him; I had never thought our relationship would end. But end it did, and in so shocking a manner. Good things shouldn’t end that abruptly. Relationships don’t die at once. Death is not a casual occurrence.
 The most painful part of it was that I didn’t die. I felt like dying. I wanted to die. But I didn’t know how to go about it. I should have killed him too; I should have hurt him too. He looked like he was hurting, but I should have made sure. It is too painful to feel the pain of death and yet be alive. There is no pain worse than the pain of death.
 And then, the man wanted us to be Father and Daughter, just father and daughter. I couldn’t understand why he would want to reduce our love to something merely biological and normal. Why on earth couldn’t he see that I could never be happy as just his daughter, and that I could never be remotely happy with any other arrangement? We were happy, I made him happy. Why do some people reject their own happiness?
 For a long time I had believed my father loved me. On my twentiethbirthday, I knew the truth. That day was my awakening to the heartlessness of men, and the absurdity of love. That day, I grew up, I grew old and I died.
 It was the last day I spoke or saw my father. He killed me, so I made sure I remained dead to him. I became a living dead, dead inside and alive only in looks.
 As I left him that evening, I looked back a lot of times. He didn’t recant, he didn’t rethink. He watched me leave. The tears were streaming from both our eyelids. I could feel his sorrow; it was thick enough to touch. The feeling was apt; death had occurred.
 The man came for me twice, later. But he came as a father coming for his daughter. He should have come for me as a soul for its soul mate, like breath for air, like the dying for life. That was what we were; romance and its love.
 He came, just that twice. I waited for him too, but he never came again. I gave up.
 I made a new resolve. Men would learn from me, the very hard way. I have what they want. My beauty is the glaring kind that every body agrees with. But my heart would be a different matter. I knew most men wouldn’t resist me; they can’t be as tough as my father, my looks were not enough for that man to change his mind and do the right thing, the best thing.
 It wasn’t easy. It took a while before I could stand the touch of any other man, but vengeance helped me detach my body from myself.
 I would forever be grateful for my looks; it was my ultimate shield. It helped me survive and helped my resolve. I set off on a mission, to hurt as I had been hurt. I soon became very successful. I brought both boys and men to their knees. I killed them and still left them alive. I remember the families that fought themselves over me, the brothers that would never forgive each other, the scandalized churches and governments, the suicides, the bankruptcies. There is a lot a body can do when it is rightly motivated.
 My father didn’t know what he unleashed.
 Payback is a beautiful side of nature. There is no payback as sweet and profound as when it’s total and final, like death. No man recovered that encountered me.
 But vengeance was not so much fun. I didn’t feel any lasting relief. Hurting men didn’t make me feel much better; it was a constant reminder to my own heartbreak. But I couldn’t stop. Sometimes I wondered what the whole point was. I could never lose the pangs I had for my father’s touch. Payback did not completely fill the chasm that my father dug in me. I doubt if anything ever would.
 I would have easily given everything up for things to get back to what it was.
 I lived like someone on a mission, and I wanted to be free from the service, but I just couldn’t. In moments of weakness, I would always think about what my father and I had. Thinking about our perfect love brought me tears and gave me joy. At such moments, I would really try to feel and have fun, I would let my guard down to see if I would be alive again. It was no use. No other man was like my father. No one even came close. No one was able to get me right, something was always missing. With my dad it was perfect, he knew just what I wanted, and how. No two people were ever in sync as my father and I was. No other man could bring me alive.
The last time I had pleasure was with my father.
This many years have passed, since I lost my beloved father. And more recently the world lost him too. I just left his grave side. I have never been able to understand why I keep visiting his grave, despite the distance, despite all. And each time, I always leave with an exhausting longing, a fiery desire, and an intense craving.
I would do anything; anything, just to have sex with my father again.
Op-ed pieces and contributions are the opinions of the writers only and do not represent the opinions of Y!/YNaija.
the writing seems like it was written by a professional author
MMMMMMM! Made me hard. I love getting hard. Cuz once your hard, there is only one thing to do with it. Jack it off.
I jacked off to pictures of tweens in panties and bra after i read this story. MMMMMMMMMM!
I jacked off to sexy tweens in panties and bra after I read this. MMMMMMM!
Close to home !!! I am MWM, have grown kids. My Daddy started with me at age 5 and proceeded till I was 15. He died and I almost did also. It is still like a very pleasant dream !!!
I ended it with my daughter when she was 12. She was devastated. It took years to reconnect.
I loved the story! The writer makes me feel like it is a deeply personal confession of how this incestuous love with her father became everything to her. She is a ‘victim’ because of her age and it was her Father. But she falls in love with him and he with her. To her this becomes the perfect love, only to have it shattered by the only man in her life!
Needs more detail about how he fucked her when she was twelve.
I must agree, much more could have been mentioned about the first rape. I also didn’t notice too much about her mother either.
In fact, if you spend any time looking at fantasy stories about incest and those who write the stories, I think you will find an exceptionally large number are female writers.
Base on vanacular things abi. Home is sweet.
Wow!!!! I held my heart in my mouth till I finished. Beautifully written…….shocking, but a very pleasant read.
I love this article…couldn't stop reading till I got to the end.
Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *
In its quest to inspire a generation of women to do greater things in diverse fields of endeavour, YNaija brings ...
“You see that word Ashewo, I hate it!” Gift, a sex worker. It is a daredevil attempt arguing that you ...
Let me take you on this pseudo-perilous long journey with Lagos street youth. I was at an #EndSARS gathering when ...
An edict issued and personally signed by Pope Francis will finally see women, ‘recognized for the service already carried out ...
by Guest Contributor We listen to people we want to be like, but we don’t always pick the right people. ...
For much of our recent past, the year 2020 was held as a symbol of futurism in collective imagination. We ...
We wanted to know how it all began, the experiences, the ups, the downs, and the…ermmm. If you knew Adenike, ...
I won’t rest until I bring relief to Nigerians, says Buhari Medical lecturers to be paid as FG breaks ASUU’s ...
Nigerian award-winning singer Oluwatobiloba Daniel Anidugbe popularly called Kizz Daniel is currently trending on Twitter after showing up late at ...
Labor party presidential candidate, Peter Obi is set to unveil former Senator and Baze University founder, Dr. Yusuf Dutty Baba-Ahmed ...
Bandits are abducting our people like chickens – Abia communities Kuje attack: Our security system has failed – Senate NISS ...
The Labor Party (LP) is set to announce Senator Yusuf Datti Baba-Ahmed as the running mate to Presidential candidate, Peter ...
Mina’s World, a coffee shop known for its LGBT brand has shut down after employees protested against the owners and ...







Light







Dark







Auto





Slow Burn: Roe v. Wade
Highland Park
Brittney Griner
Inflation
Jan. 6
Guns
Monkeypox
Thor: Love and Thunder







Light







Dark







Auto





We encountered an issue signing you up. Please try again.

Send me updates about Slate special offers.


Content Locked


for Slate Plus members




About

About Us
Work With Us
Contact
Pitch Guidelines
Send Us Tips
Corrections
Commenting
Reprints



Subscriptions

Subscribe
Sign In
Account
Subscription FAQs
Podcast FAQs
Newsletters
Customer Support



Advertising

Site Advertising
Podcast Advertising
AdChoices
Cookie Preferences


How to Do It is Slate’s sex advice column. Have a question? Send it to Stoya and Rich here. It’s anonymous!
Every week, the crew responds to a bonus question in chat form.
My wife bravely has confided in me she was sexually active with her older brother for 20 years (give or take). She ran from home and left him right before she arrived in my state. She cut communication for three years. We’ve decided to be radically honest with each other, but unfortunately, that means I know everything we do in bed came from him: threesomes, filming, every dirty thing that my wife amazed me with was all taught by her older brother. I can’t seem to move past that. They were kids when this started—he was a young teenager, and she was even younger. I know it’s not her fault, and she was abused. But she has talked to him a few times in secret, and once read a text saying “I can’t get you out of my head.” I now feel like the woman I live to serve and love will never crave me or enjoy me more than her secret abusive lover. I am drowning and don’t want to let this hurt ruin us. What the hell do I do?
Rich: I wonder how much treatment the wife has undergone. Healing from this level of trauma requires more than a single conversation.
Stoya: I wonder if she’s undergone any at all. It’s a long road, and a professional would be very useful here.
Rich: I would gander a guess that she could use individual therapy but that couple’s therapy would also be useful here.
Stoya: And therapy for him. Help processing difficult things now seems like it’d prevent complications in the future.
Rich: There are support groups for survivors but also for partners of survivors. RAINN serves partners as well.
Stoya: Amazing. Yeah, I think he could use someone to talk with who isn’t his wife. I’m stuck on a detail. Our writer is upset that she “once read a text saying ‘I can’t get you out of my head.’ ” Unless that’s a typo, it’s illogical to take his continued texting of her as evidence that she’s still stuck on him. Talking in secret, on the other hand, is a big red flag.
Sex advice from Stoya and Rich, delivered weekly.
Thanks for signing up! You can manage your newsletter subscriptions at any time.
Rich: I mean, this is a sexual relationship that started so early in her development. Abuse shaped her during formative years. If she were hung up on her brother, it’d be understandable if she hasn’t been treated. I understand this situation is extraordinary and complicated, but there is a degree of acceptance required from our letter writer: Your wife’s past is her past. How she learned what she learned may raise your hackles, but you can’t change it—you can only deal with its effects.
Stoya: Our writer will never replace the brother and that’s a good thing . The healthy relationship between spouses is an entirely different situation, with different feelings and different reasons to participate. Better reasons to participate.
Rich: I think this situation is going to require a tremendous amount of care and patience because it is so extraordinary. She may need decades to heal, and the process might be tough. Regarding how incest may affect development, I read this in a Counseling Today piece called “ Understanding and Treating Survivors of Incest ”:
Early onset of incest along with chronic exposure to complex trauma contexts interrupts typical neurological development, often leading to a shift from learning brain (prefrontal cortex) to survival brain (brainstem) functioning. As explained by Christine Courtois and Julian Ford, survivors experience greater activation of the primitive brain, resulting in a survival mode rather than activation of brain structures that function to make complex adjustments to the current environment. As a result, survivors often exhibit an inclination toward threat avoidance rather than being curious and open to experiences. Complex trauma undermines survivors’ ability to fully integrate sensory, emotional and cognitive data into an organized, coherent whole. This lack of a consistent and coh
Shemale Tamarah Camargo
Celebrity Sex Scenes
Sex Com Hd