Had Sex With My Dad

Had Sex With My Dad

Was this page helpful?
Yes
No

Performance & security by Cloudflare

You cannot access medium.com. Refresh the page or contact the site owner to request access.
Copy and paste the Ray ID when you contact the site owner.

Ray ID:

7431ac0c5da19d51

7431ac0c5da19d51 Copy

For help visit Troubleshooting guide

Issue: *

Other Report

Copyright Infringement

Spam

Invalid Contents

Broken Links

Broken Interface

Your Name: *

Your Email: *

I am 17 years old. I slept with my father for the first time! It was an unforgettable experience! It was an ordinary day. Dad came back from work, and Mom was on a business trip. I was writing some homework, and then Dad burst into the room: -Is there anything for lunch? -I do not know! I guess Grandma left something in the fridge. I went downstairs, and went to have a bite. Dad was sitting at the computer, looking at a site. As I turned on, he turned it off. Then I said to him: -Don’t fire, it’s okay-then I approached him and said-Daddy? !! -M? – replied the dead ladan because his secret was revealed. -Look, I want to have you-he turned in wonder and said: -Excuse me? – I want to lose my virginity with you! He just said, “Hey, don’t mess around,” and then I saw him get up and I said, “Daddy, come on.” He got up and slapped me: -If I hear that again, you’re flying out! Clear? I went to the room crying! In the evening when I went to bed he came in and said: -Sorry to hit you! I DON’T want us to fight! I looked at him and he just ran his hand over my lips with his clothes. Then he lifted my nightgown and took off my panties. -Oh, come on, daughter. Take off my pants. I laughed, and then took them off. How big he was. UHH! I got up and kissed him. She threw him on the bed. And I started smoking his big, 45cm, no lifting! He pushed it at me and just yelled! Then I felt my pussy get wet, and I told him: -I want to feel your cock in me-then he slowly pierced me, it didn’t hurt and it passed without blood! He was pounding it on me. Oh how good it was. We did it without protection. I shouted: Oh yes. Daddy. Deeper . Ajdee Ohh How I like it. Charge him. Break my pussy As far as I noticed, it excited him! Then we changed poses He kissed me, leaning against the wall. What not. Then we sat on the steps in the house, so he fucked me on the stairs too! Oh, that was the best! -Daddy. AHH! Uh. -Uh my beauty. How naughty you are. – And that’s where we both fuck. Then he took a video camera, and put on a tape and started fucking me again .. Ah. But he handcuffed me, and whipped me. I mean, that bitch for eating. His cooking was top notch! Then we went out on the terrace with the lights off, and it was 2 in the morning! There was a light on the camera, so it could be seen. My pussy spread more and more. We entered the house and continued on the bed. We took poses from the kamasutra. I mixed and mixed. THAT burned him -Daughters. Ku ** ice moja.Oh.To.Ti si.Ahh. Oh You were naughty. – Yes, Daddy. Oh. Uh Aah. Push. Push. We soon died. I told him! – Never again, let’s forget this! In the morning he approached me, caressed me. I refused, then he picked me up and took me to the kitchen! I couldn’t resist that cock beauty **. And not my drink. And he stabbed me in the kitchen just like last night. I told him that I had infertile days, and that he could eat me without a condom. And whenever Mom is on a business trip, Dad and I often do what we shouldn’t, filming.
Source: Lečenje Biljem by cajeviza.com . *The article has been translated based on the content of Lečenje Biljem by cajeviza.com . If there is any problem regarding the content, copyright, please leave a report below the article. We will try to process as quickly as possible to protect the rights of the author. Thank you very much! *We just want readers to access information more quickly and easily with other multilingual content, instead of information only available in a certain language. *We always respect the copyright of the content of the author and always include the original link of the source article.If the author disagrees, just leave the report below the article, the article will be edited or deleted at the request of the author. Thanks very much! Best regards!

Press ' enter ' or click the to search all of Writing.Com.
Any Genre --------------- Action/Adven Activity Adult Animal Arts Biographical Business Career Children's Comedy Community Computers Contest Contest Entr Crime/Gangst Cultural Dark Death Detective Drama Educational Emotional Entertainmen Environment Erotica Experience Family Fanfiction Fantasy Fashion Finance Folklore Food/Cooking Foreign Friendship Gay/Lesbian Genealogy Ghost Gothic Health History Hobby/Craft Holiday Home/Garden Horror/Scary How-To/Advic Inspirationa Internet/Web Legal Medical Melodrama Men's Military Music Mystery Mythology Nature News Nonsense Occult Opinion Paranormal Parenting Personal Pets Philosophy Political Psychology Reference Regional Relationship Religious Research Reviewing Romance/Love Satire Sci-fi Scientific Self Help Spiritual Sports Steampunk Supernatural Technology Teen Thriller/Sus Tragedy Transportati Travel Tribute War Western Women's Writing Writing.Com Young Adult Any Type ------------- Audio Books CNotes Campfires Crosswords Documents Folders Forums Groups Images In & Outs Interactives Madlibs Members Photo Albums Polls Quizzes Searches Shops Statics Surveys Web Pages
Any Genre --------------- Action/Adven Activity Adult Animal Arts Biographical Business Career Children's Comedy Community Computers Contest Contest Entr Crime/Gangst Cultural Dark Death Detective Drama Educational Emotional Entertainmen Environment Erotica Experience Family Fanfiction Fantasy Fashion Finance Folklore Food/Cooking Foreign Friendship Gay/Lesbian Genealogy Ghost Gothic Health History Hobby/Craft Holiday Home/Garden Horror/Scary How-To/Advic Inspirationa Internet/Web Legal Medical Melodrama Men's Military Music Mystery Mythology Nature News Nonsense Occult Opinion Paranormal Parenting Personal Pets Philosophy Political Psychology Reference Regional Relationship Religious Research Reviewing Romance/Love Satire Sci-fi Scientific Self Help Spiritual Sports Steampunk Supernatural Technology Teen Thriller/Sus Tragedy Transportati Travel Tribute War Western Women's Writing Writing.Com Young Adult Reading Any Type ------------- Audio Books CNotes Campfires Crosswords Documents Folders Forums Groups Images In & Outs Interactives Madlibs Members Photo Albums Polls Quizzes Searches Shops Statics Surveys Web Pages
Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/1591075-The-Night-I-Slept-with-My-Father
Rated: XGC · Short Story · Erotica · # 1591075
A young woman and her father try to cope with the death of their mother and wife.
Created: August 14th, 2009 at 9:31 am
Modified: August 14th, 2009 at 9:31 am

© Copyright 2009 miatetangco (miatetangco at Writing.Com).
All rights reserved.
Writing.Com, its affiliates and syndicates have been granted non-exclusive rights to display this work.

Not a Member? Signup right now, for free!
Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/1591075-The-Night-I-Slept-with-My-Father
Need help?

Get Started

F.A.Q.
Writing.Com 101
Please post questions in our support forum .
Copyright 2000 - 2022 21 x 20 Media All rights reserved. This site is property of 21 x 20 Media
All Writing.Com images are copyrighted and may not be copied / modified in any way. All other brand names & trademarks are owned by their respective companies.

Generated in 0.52 seconds at 8:33pm on Aug 30, 2022 via server web2.
Places of Interest: Unique Wedding Invitations for unique wedding needs. Color Copiers found here. Baby Names can be hard to pick. Hands-free hygenic toilet seats covers . Dramatic Music rocks. Vampires are people too. Write Poetry here. Try this Stock Market quiz. Teaching is a noble job. Get info on Tax Refunds .
It was cold at the funeral. The leaves dropped like dead flies. A few landed on her coffin. It suddenly looked like Halloween: orange leaves laid against a dark wooden box. My father stood silent beside me. His eyes were red-rimmed, yet I had never seen him cry. He had been in this state of almost-crying for a week now. Good for him; I hadn’t shed a tear, and my eyes were nowhere near red. No, not even pink.

I didn’t feel guilty. Death didn’t scare me; talking about it didn’t bother me. Death wasn’t sad, it was just natural. I was young when I knew that I would never cry at anyone’s funeral. Not a friend’s, not a grandparent’s. Not even my mother’s. And I was right.

It was my mother’s funeral and my second cousin’s sister’s mother-in-law was crying harder than I was. Even the dogs howled their mourning, sniffing forlornly at the edges of the sinking casket as it was lowered into the earth.

I didn’t miss her. I wasn’t sad. All I could feel was a bland acceptance. To be honest, I hardly knew her. All I was sure of was that she loved to talk, and she would never shut up. On long drives, she would keep rambling on and on in the car, not knowing that everyone else had fallen asleep. She’d never notice.

I loved the quiet and she loved to talk. I didn’t miss her.

The soil thudded onto her coffin wetly. It had started to drizzle, and black umbrellas – perfect for solemn times like this – popped open one by one. From the sky, I imagined, it would look like a large black canvas had materialized across the grass.

I gripped my umbrella tightly, studying my dark gloves, shimmering in places where the pale sunlight hit them. I had no other gloves. The ones I was wearing were for dinner parties. They were itchy and I couldn’t wait to take them off.

*

I was home. And I couldn’t remember what had happened after my gloves. I remembered thinking how pretty the raindrops looked as they made sinewy trails of water on the windows of our black limousine, but that was all.

I stood on my bare feet in the middle of my room. I took my gloves off and threw them in some dark corner in my closet. I scratched furiously up and down my arms, irritated that my father had forced me to wear gloves even if it wasn’t too cold out. He’d insisted. He’d told me my mother had loved it when I wore those gloves. She’d bought them for me from Spain. She had loved Spain. That was another thing I knew about her.

My father said I looked more like her everyday, and that the gloves – elbow-length – made us look like twins if she had been a few decades younger. Because my mother’s favorite accessory had been gloves. It was strange how she loved them so much. I recall a faint memory of her telling me it had made her feel like a movie star when she was little, that she had grown attached to the way they looked, the way they felt, on her pale arms. To me, it felt constricting. As if my arms had been wrapped in gauze.

*

Dinner that night was quiet. It was to be expected. My father and I had said nothing to each other since we got home. I could hear the dogs in the corner. They whined occasionally. They licked their paws, eating up the mud that had accumulated between their black-padded toes.

A ringing started in my ears, punctured by the sharp sound the forks and spoons made on our plates. Each sound seemed magnified. My ears felt like they were being continuously stabbed.

Finally, my father spoke. The ringing stopped. The clanging stopped.

“You’re not eating much.”

The silence was awkward. I didn’t know what to say.

My father cleared his throat. “You looked nice today. At the funeral.”

“It was kind of warm.”

“Because of the gloves. I know you didn’t want to wear them. I’m glad you did.”

“It was pointless.”

My father drew a deep breath. “I’m sure your mother appreciated it. She loved the way they looked on you.”

“Mom’s dead.” The two words grew huge in the silence. The room seemed to darken, the lights to dim.

My father nudged his temples. I had started a headache in his skull.

“What would you want me to have said?”

“Nothing.” His head shook once, slowly. Left to right.

“Not nothing. Never nothing. What would you want me to have said?” My voice was louder. It was growing, feeding off of what it found inside me. Whatever it could grasp. “It only makes sense. It only – ”

“You are… so stubborn. So insensitive.” From my father, it came out an angry shout. “I ask you this one thing – ”

I was annoyed. That’s all I was, but I was shaking. I looked like I was furious. But I only felt a shallow annoyance. I burst, without warning: “How come something negative about someone only becomes endearing after their dead?”

My father shifted in his chair, blinked, and looked at me. I couldn’t stop. Not now – not anymore.

“Why not just tell them you love their stubbornness, or their hot-headedness while their alive? So they actually know that you love them for who they are. Why is that? Is it just politeness? You don’t want to speak ill of the dead because they might haunt you? Because they’re dead? Is that it?”

“What – what are you saying, sweetheart?” My father was confused, surprised. He had been angry then called me sweetheart. I saw him flinch: he was also hurt. I couldn’t blame him; I was, too. I was all the things my father was. But I had started, and it was too late to stop now. My father wanted – needed – an explanation.

“I heard you at the funeral.” My hands were fists. The utensils dug into my palm, cold and hard and unrelenting. “I heard you say how much you loved how Mom was just so messy, Dad. I heard you, and you said you loved that about her. Well then how come when she was alive you’d yell at her for it, huh? You’d get into fights all the time because she just wouldn’t clean up her crap. Can you tell me why that is, Dad? Were you just faking for the people at the funeral? Were you afraid that Grandpa and Grandma would be horrified that you’d dare to insult their daughter at her own funeral? You were just lying, then, Dad. You were lying to that whole bunch of people.”

I was crying. I could feel it on my face. I could feel the tears and they felt strange. My hand shook when I wiped them away. They had already dried up on my cold skin, a meek straggle of tears.

My father took my hand. I stared at our fingers, the way they were laced: his fingers short and stubby, mine abnormally long – mine like my mother’s. His hand felt familiar. We used to walk like this – fingers laced – when we went to the mall, or the park, or the gas station to fill up the car. Anywhere. It seemed wrong to do it now. It seemed too relaxed. Like we were too calm, acting too normal. I could feel our pulses racing together, neck and neck.

“I’m sorry, Dad.”

“I’m sorry, too. It’s just that… I loved her. Very much.”

“I know. I love her, too – can’t help but.”

That was all I could say. Like at the funeral, I clammed up. I was at a loss. My mother’s was the first funeral I’d gone to. My mother was the first death I’d been alive to go through. I hadn’t cried at the funeral, but I had cried soon after.

I looked up at my father. Looked into his almost-crying eyes. I wondered if he ever did cry. “Can I sleep with you tonight? We could stay up and talk about her if you like.”

My father nodded silently. He almost smiled, but this wasn’t a time for smiling.

*

I could hear my father breathing. He was awake. His breaths were irregular: sometimes fast, sometimes slow, sometimes not there at all. I knew he was still thinking about her. For him, it would be hard to forget. It would be hard to fall asleep.

I tried to comfort him. I pulled myself next to him, lay my head on his shoulder, and curled my arm across his stomach, the way my mother used to hug him. His belly was soft and fleshy. He had just eaten but it felt like his stomach was empty.

His breathing stopped completely, and he froze. I guess for him it was awkward. I had never been an affectionate daughter. I had never hugged him like this. Or maybe it just reminded him too much of my mother.

I understood where he was coming from. But, all the same, it stung: tonight was when I needed him. I kissed him on the cheek and slowly pulled away. We lay a foot apart on the bed, and the only sounds were the two of us breathing, trying to fall asleep, to escape the awkwardness.

I turned on my side and faced away from him, closing my eyes. I opened them after what felt like hours. I couldn’t sleep. Neither could my father. He usually snored – big, monstrous snores that could keep people in the next room awake. The night was painfully silent. A buzzing began in my ears and it was deafening.

I felt my father stir and the bed shifted. I could feel the heat from his body at my back. He had moved closer. Maybe he would try to make up for his stiffness earlier. I could sense his arm stretching out behind me, to pull me into an embrace.

He stopped. His hand fell heavily on my arm and he gave it a quick squeeze. He wasn’t ready.

I felt tears in my eyes as he pulled away. I didn’t know why I was crying so soon after I had stopped. I tried my best to conceal it. I sniffed as quietly as I could. I pressed my face into the pillow.

My arms were moving. They wrapped themselves across my chest. I felt my cold hands digging into my shoulders. I had no control over my limbs. It felt like my body knew I needed comfort, and was compensating for its absence.

I closed my eyes again. When I opened them, it was morning.

*

I was in my room. A picture of my mother was in my hands, and a scene was forming in my head. A bright and blinding scene that made my eyes tear and burn.

My mother and father were fighting, and soon we were on the bus – me, my mother, and her pills. The cap went off as soon as we sat down and she downed one, two. I saw her long neck stretch and move as she swallowed. She had taken another two that morning. Before the yelling, before the storming out.

She took my hand in both of hers, pressing it to her forehead. She breathed slowly, and then more slowly.

I didn’t wonder where we were going. I didn’t ask this time, because I knew. It was always the same place: “Asias.” My mother told me, though I didn’t need to know. “Asias Hotel – same place as always, dear.”

I nodded. I didn’t answer. I was mad at her. For taking me with her, for leaving my father, without asking me who I wanted to stay with. I felt my anger boil over and I yanked my hand away from hers.

She sighed: she was used to this. She often brought me with her; I often got angry. “You know I’d never leave you there. With him.”

Busty Milf Gangbang
Nude Pinups
Girls Who Suck Dick

Had Sex With My Dad

Report Page