Incest Stories Camping

Incest Stories Camping

Today, a reader tells us about making a bold move while camping...(I'm impressed!)
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Today, a reader tells us about making a bold move while camping...(I'm impressed!)
I was on a camping trip with a bunch of people from college. We'd hike all day and make dinner and play games around the campsite at night. This guy Ben and I had a real connection. He was shy overall, but we'd talk all day, as we walked through the woods, I'd notice at him staring at me across the campfire. And whenever we'd play games he'd always tease me in a flirty way.
On the third (and final) night of our trip, I decided I had to make a move. I was too nervous to say anything during the day, though, and I wussed out again during dinner. So I climbed into my tent, kicking myself myself for not flirting with him more or telling him I liked him.
As I got into my sleeping bag, I lay there and thought, This is ridiculous. I know he likes me, why are we just lying in our separate tents? So I got up, climbed outside, walked over to his tent, unzipped it, and just climbed right in.
Ben looked startled, but he didn't say anything. I just looked at him and then kissed him. He kissed me back, and whispered, "I've been wanting to kiss you, too." It was the best hook-up ever, and to this day, I am proud of myself for making that move!
Thanks for sharing! Dear readers, have you ever made the first move? Do you like camping ? What about naked hiking (it exists!) or hooking up in the woods ?
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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.
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DANIELLE wasn’t sure what she was getting herself into on a clothing-optional getaway. It turned out very differently to how she expected.
THE lump in my stomach grew as my boyfriend and I cruised down the highway into a land with few houses, filled with trees upon trees. The road turned to gravel.
“Five minutes away,” he said in an uneven tone. “If we hate it we’ll leave.”
“Oh god, what have we gotten ourselves into?” I replied.
We were heading to Two Creeks, a clothing optional campground in northern Minnesota.
We were neither nudists nor swingers, gays nor lesbians nor trans, the demographics the campground catered to. Despite my love of being naked when I please, you could say I was uneasy to say the least.
We were greeted by the owner at the front gate, ready but terrified for our tour of the immense 40-hectare property. It was divided into sections. The main areas were “Alaska”, the deserted area far from anyone on this slow weekend; the self-proclaimed “Homo Heights” section, with the name which says it all; and the “City”, where the residents tended to live.
We decided we would hide away in our tiny tent in “Alaska” just in case everything freaked us out and we just wanted to camp out in the beautiful trees.
The tour progressed and every person we passed met us with big smiles and invites to their pools, hot tubs, dinners. Whether naked or clothed, every person offered a bright smile, excited for newcomers, albeit the youngest ones there.
Having only snacks on us and an intrigue to see what the campground was like, we headed over to another area, so-called “Misfit Island”, for dinner. Many people had beautiful campers that they built decks onto, along with swimming pools, hot tubs, and amazing hangout areas. There was even a hall for dances for the busier weekends, whether an organised event was planned or the residents decided to open it up themselves.
Misfit Island welcomed us in the moment we stepped up, fully clothed among ten or fifteen naked people. They smiled and accepted our gift of chips and vodka as they passed us countless shots of Fireball and led us to the buffet of food donated by different residents.
No money was to be spent at Two Creeks, but instead, there was a beautiful system of exchange. Need something done around your trailer? Grab someone a case of beer. Hungry with no grub? Toss on over a bag of chips. Nothing at all to exchange? Don’t worry about it, you’ll be taken care of anyway.
As a storm started setting in, we decided to splurge and move out of the tent and into an old school bus that looked like it would be less than cozy from the black tattered outside. We held our breath.
Instead of a ratty old bus, we stepped inside to find a perfectly renovated and beautiful place, complete with bathroom, bed, drinking water, everything. Plus, we were next to Misfit Island and our first new friend.
After briefly settling in I stripped off my top, feeling comfortable among our new friends. Oh sure, dirty jokes roamed free, as we laughed and drank the night away. Though my boyfriend had no desire to go naked, no one pressured him.
The only rule at Two Creeks is no means no, a rule that is strictly accepted and followed. Hey, the swingers may sometimes be on the prowl, but everyone wants to feel com
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