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So, yeah, let’s talk about my fucking prom, spring of my senior year, which turned out worse than you might expect, because this is my fucking life.
Jim. Great guy, maybe nerdy to other girls, but I had a thing for him. I’d had actually had my eye on him for ages. He was way better than the guys I sucked off for fun. He was smart, funny, and grounded in a way I could never even pretend to be. He had like the whole real, happy family shit going on and stuff. I could actually see myself with him, you know? I mean, do things a different way, with a different purpose. Be a different person with him.
Maybe I was attracted more to his family and his life than to him. I don’t know.
So Jim, he hooked up with another girl at the prom, pretty soon after we got there, the girl he really liked, some nerdy, shy creature named Carly who had an even flatter chest than mine. No shit. Go figure.
So they just skedaddled, leaving me there to slowly, agonizingly figure out that I’d been ditched, then wallow in it, then realize that everyone else was going to know that I’d been ditched and make my life even more of a hell than it already was. It’s my life, right? I should have known that it was inevitable. A romantic prom, a blossoming romance with a normal guy, a new direction for me. Yeah, right.
The skinny dork, I forget his name, that came with nerdy, flat-chested Carly, once reality hit him in the cerebrum, stumbled over to talk to me. He approached me so gingerly I felt like I had a force field around me, pushing him back. Maybe it’s because I was the girl who sucked cock, or maybe it was the smoldering, intimidating look on my face. He, on the other hand, looked lost and hurt and confused, like a puppy that desperately needs to be let outside to pee. I talked to him in short snippets, hoping he’d go away, until I started feel sorry for him. For a moment I tried to console the idiot, and make jokes like my Dad does, until I watched it dawn on him that he might have traded up to the wild tomboy with tattoos and a well-known penchant for giving exquisite blowjobs.
I shut that shit right down.
But I still needed a ride home, and Mom was no doubt passed out on the sofa, and if not, she’d never keep the car on the road long enough to get here and let me take the wheel. There was no way I was getting into a car with Carly’s castoff dork. So I called my dad, who was away on a business trip. He drove almost three hours to pick me up, while I spent a tortured eternity trying to blend in and act happy and normal, so no one would realize that I’d been fucking, embarrassingly dumped.
Dad got there around 2 AM, when it was getting really hard to hide the awful truth, but I think I maybe had succeeded. I think by then everyone else thought Jim had just gotten drunk or sick and was waiting for it to wear off. And then my stupid idiot of a dad wrecked the whole damned thing by actually coming all the way into the place to look for me. So now the entire fucking known universe knows my dorky dad had to come to pick me up from the prom.
I mean, people aren’t stupid, and I was kidding myself. They probably had already figured things out by then. My best hope was probably that no one actually cared enough to notice, except that it was fucking high school, where everything gets noticed and discussed. There were certainly all sorts of whispered or not so whispered bathroom and side conversations about how the weird, sex-crazed girl got dumped, but what did she expect? He was out of her league. She was weird. And deviant. And perpetually alone.
But Dad, right there in the middle of everything, like the ringmaster in a fucking circus, with the spotlight right on him. I slipped along the edge of the room to the door, while he looked all around. When he looked my way, he caught my eye long enough to know I’d seen him, and I sidestepped out the emergency exit door, letting it slam closed behind me.
He followed me out, and I held it together, chewing on my tongue, avoiding a scene, until we got into the car and started to pull out. Then I let him have it, screaming, crying, twice I punched his shoulder, hollering at what a fucking useless dolt he was.
He sheepishly took it all. He looked honestly pained, once I pointed out his fucking obvious fucking how-could-anyone-do-that mistake, but I felt no pity for him. I tortured him the whole way home, as if everything that had transpired that night was his fault, not Jim’s, not Carly’s, not high school life’s, and certainly not mine.
I put it all on him, and he took it all, silently, without complaint. Not without feeling. He felt bad. I made him feel bad, and I could see on his face that he felt it. I still feel bad about that now, myself.
He did make me laugh a few times, during the ride home. He told me Jim would probably get Carly pregnant, and they’d have nerd babies that learned to play the violin and joined the glee club and ruined their futures. I wasn’t sure if that made me feel better or worse. He said canlı bahis that proms were invented to make the rest of your life feel like a success, and no one left them unscathed. I’m not sure that made me feel better, either, but it made me laugh without lessening my anger. I thought at the time he was just trying to deflect that anger, and to make himself feel better about what a stupid-ass prick he’d been, but I realize now that he’d done what he’d always done, he made me laugh to ease my own pain, not his, and as a back-handed way of making me feel better about myself.
The thing was, he had driven three fucking hours to get me. He was going to have to drive three hours back, to arrive back wherever he was at six AM and function on zero sleep. And he hates driving. He hated that job, beyond anything I could ever remember.
But he did all that for me. To abuse him for it. I sat there, being an insensitive, ungrateful, spoiled little shit, making him feel like shit the whole way and for weeks after, when he was really, really putting himself out there for me.
He came to get me, and more than that, he was the only fucking person on earth who could or would have come to get me. Good or bad, skirt-chasing prick or not, clueless, idiot loser-of-a-dad or not, he was the one guy in the universe that I could always, always, always count on to bail me out of a bad situation, even if he made it a little worse in the process.
My dad. My fucking, awesome dad.
* * *
Okay, sorry yet again. Dad and I had… a moment. He kissed me, I kissed him back, we sort of got going, but we both felt too rancid from a long, hot day to just jump in the sack, so we took a shower together. And yes, we did it in the shower, and yes, it was wonderful. I love when he lifts me up, holds me in the air by my ass, and kisses me and fucks me with the hot water streaming down our bodies. He has complete control of me when he does that, raising and lowering me on his cock as it pleases him. It’s amazing to me how quickly he can make me come when he has complete control like that.
I’m actually still soaking wet, dripping all over the carpet and the keyboard. I don’t care. I want to write this now. Getting really well fucked put me in the mood.
Now, where was I?
Oh, yeah. You probably want to know more about that first night with Daddy. Not the sex. That was boring. Well, except for the whole father-daughter incest thing. That was pretty fucking extreme, right? But the actual act was close to the worst sex I’ve ever had, not clumsy bad, just ho-hum-what-is-the-point bad.
Since it was boring, it wasn’t very memorable, so between that and the mixed drinks I don’t remember too much. Basically, he got on top of me on his bed, and I wrapped my arms and legs around his back, hanging on for dear life, while he hammered into me. I think I came. I’m pretty sure I came. I’m sure as hell sure that he did. Daddy shot his seed right up into his little girl’s pussy, that’s for damned sure. It dripped down my leg in the morning, when I got up to go puke.
We didn’t kiss. I remember that much. It seemed too sick at the time. Weird, right? Father and daughter are fucking, full blown, cock-in-pussy penetration, but it was wrong to kiss each other. We lay there with our heads side-by-side, cheek to cheek, panting and grunting and sweating, and trying not to look at each other or to get our lips too close together as he jack-hammered his cock inside of me. Cooties, you know?
So, yeah, we fucked, and he came, and I think I came, I want to have come, and we fell asleep.
But what you really want to know is how we wound up doing “it”.
Well, of course we got drunk, but it started before that. I showed up to visit, hoping to get some support, and by support I mean at least some money out of him, and if I could maybe some help in moving to Baltimore. I spent a lot of time buttering him up. I can play “Daddy’s little girl,” the regular, socially acceptable way, as well as the next manipulative slut. I can bat my eyes, and snuggle up close to him, and hang on his every word. And I did.
But it wasn’t sexual, at least I didn’t think so. At least, not at first.
My second day there, some guys were checking me out, and I acted offended and disgusted. Dad said he didn’t blame them. I acted embarrassed and flattered at the same time, and to tell the truth, I was. Back in high school, that Tanya slut wasn’t the only girl my dad had banged, but they all had big tits and curvy asses, nothing like the more… subtle figure that I have. Not many guys ever told me I looked good. Certainly never sexy. So when he implied that I was sexy, it made me feel good. Really good.
I think it was then that I started playing a game with it. Having him say that made me feel good about myself, and I wanted more. I started to tease him, I guess. Flirt, even. I gave him views of my ass, and did my best to stick it out and make it as round as I could. I opened my blouse up when he wasn’t looking, bahis siteleri then kept giving him angles to peek, while I very carefully looked away, so he wouldn’t think he’d get caught.
It took a while for him to start paying attention. To be honest, it was frustrating, and starting to piss me off. It made me think he only said that bit before to make me feel good. But eventually he came around. He started to peek, and then his gaze started to linger. Eventually, it became a wonderful game. I think he knew what I was doing, and he knew that I knew that he was looking, but we still did it.
After two days of that, on the Sunday night before Memorial Day, we went out for dinner, and then to a loud, dusty club for drinks, knowing I had to get back to my shitty, little hole the next day, so I could work my two shitty, little jobs the day after that. I had too much wine at dinner, then started to add mojitos on after that. Dad just kept buying and buying as much as I wanted, and I took advantage of the opportunity.
Now, I have to admit, I never asked him if I could come to stay. I wanted to. I wanted to so fucking badly, but when it came down to it, I was scared. I was so scared he’d say no, that I needed to live my own life, that he needed to finally live his own life, and then I’d have nothing. So I avoided it. I think the flirting and the teasing was sort of a backhanded way of asking him, while avoiding asking him. It was so easy to flirt and playact the teasing slut. It was so hard to ask. It gave me something else to do, some other way of getting his approval, without putting myself out there to be crushed. In the end he had no idea that that was what I wanted to do. None. He thought it was just another visit.
So we drank. I flirted. He looked. He enjoyed looking. I loved that he enjoyed looking. And that he started to look at me differently. I wasn’t the girl he left behind all those years back when Mom caught him with Tanya. I can’t honestly say I’ve grown up, but I’d become a woman.
The bar got hot and a little steamy. The dancing turned erotic. A few couples started going at it on the dance floor. I could feel myself getting horny, and I suppose Dad was, too, but not for each other. Not yet. Still, when I saw a pair of young girls checking my dad out, I instantly got angry. I realize now that I was jealous, but I didn’t know it then. I moved my stool to get myself between them and Dad, so he wouldn’t notice them.
When I did that he grinned. I asked him what was so funny, but he just shook his head and took a swig of his beer. While he swallowed, he looked at me, sidewise, with a kind of knowing smirk, and then he took another swig. So to change the subject, I stuck my chest out, opened my blouse two buttons further, and complained about how hot it was, asking him if he was hot.
My eyes locked on his as I said it, and his locked right back onto mine. He swallowed the beer in his mouth, and I think I stopped breathing.
I realize now that that was the moment. That was the mistake. Right then and there, that one moment, was when it all turned inside out and upside down and fucked side up. That was when, whether we knew it or not, we both decided that Daddy was going to stick his dick in me. At least, we both decided that’s what we wanted, even if we thought it would never happen.
That was the moment. We weren’t going to make love. We weren’t really even going to fuck. Daddy was going to stick his dick in me, and I was going to let him. He was going to come, and I was going to come, but it wasn’t going to be fucking, because it was all too fucked up, right? Not fucking, real fucking. Not yet. Not that night.
I asked him if he was hot. I put it that way on purpose. Are you hot? I was questioning his interest. I was questioning his prowess. I was questioning his comfort. What was I asking?
We kept drinking, but we both got quiet. I kept looking at him when he wasn’t looking, and he looked at me when I wasn’t looking, and we both knew we were both doing it. I knew his attention never left me, and my attention sure as hell never left him. I wasn’t sure what he was thinking. I think he knew what I was thinking. I was pretty transparent. I think he spent most of the time wrestling with himself.
Now, first, let me admit that yes, I always had a thing for him. Shit, every girl does, doesn’t she? I mean, have a thing for her dad, even if she doesn’t admit it, and maybe squelches it right off, crushing it into such a tiny, subdued desire that she can’t even tell herself that it’s there.
But come on, what a girl wants is a guy she can trust, and a guy that protects her, and a guy that’s fertile, a guy that could fuck her full of babies. Right? I mean, whether that’s what you want in your brain or not, your hormones, your biology, a million years of evolution all push you to find that guy, that kind of guy. Trust, protection and babies.
And the very first guy any girl meets in her life that fits the bill is her dad. He protects bahis şirketleri her from day one. She trusts him with anything and everything. And he made you, so he can sure as hell make more of you. Trust, protection, and babies. I think a lot of little girls think about marrying their father, at least before they have any idea of what that really means, or that it’s… proscribed.
Now, I’ll admit that I maybe took that infatuation a bit further than most, and for a little longer than most. Most girls probably abandon the idea long before they ever have their first boyfriend. Not me. I think maybe the difference was that I really, really liked sex, and so very obviously did my dad. I came more than a few times fantasizing about him.
But in the end, that’s all that it was, a fantasy, and like all girls, I started to not just drift away from him but also start to be just plain annoyed by him. He dressed stupidly. He was embarrassing. He was frumpy. He did dumb things. He was uncool.
I figured my sexual desires for him were a phase that every girl goes through, and that it was over.
So here I was, in a bar, getting shit faced, feeling horny, and getting jealous whenever I noticed another girl glancing his way, or worse his glancing their way, even if he was really too old to be of interest to any of them. And anyway he wasn’t. He fucked lots of pretty young things. He always had, at least after Mom dove into the sauce, and I’m sure he still did now, probably more so. Damn, he’s sexy as hell, and not just to me. He could have them, and I’m sure he did.
Here I was, in a bar, trying to make my nipples erect, holding my cold drink against them, pinching them when he wasn’t looking, sticking them out, pursing my lips, swaying from side to side in what I hoped was a sexy sort of dance. With my blouse further open, my meager cleavage glistened with perspiration under the bright, strobing lights.
I still didn’t intend to fuck him. It was just a game, you know? It just felt good at the time, and I wasn’t thinking that far. I’m sure that in my head there were limits, there was only so far that either of us would let it go. So there was nothing to stop me when I grabbed his hand and dragged him onto the dance floor with me. It was just a game.
Of course he resisted, partly because he’s a shitty dancer, and partly because dancing with his daughter probably didn’t seem like the most fun he’d ever have. He was a good sport, so he only resisted to a point. He didn’t really have to move, anyway. I didn’t care if he danced, what I cared about was that he’d watch me dance.
And dance I did. I raised my arms up over my head and swayed and gyrated my body, from my torso to my hips to my torso, thrusting out my ass and my tits, exposing my neck, running my hand down my body, brushing my fingertips over my tits. I’d done it for lots of guys I wanted to fuck, and it was fun beyond imagining to be doing it for Daddy. My bangs hung all the way over my drunken eyes as I stared at him, dreamily, while I danced for him and only for him.
I danced. He watched. I danced. He watched and stared. The music changed, slowed, and he moved closer, and I moved closer. I rested my cheek on his shoulder, eyes closed and head swimming in a thick mud of alcoholic vapors. My arms slipped around his waist to rest my hands on his ass, while his own hands splayed on my back like angel’s wings, holding me tightly against him and making me feel like I was flying.
It’s such a foggy memory. I remember now that I eased back and looked up at his face. He was staring off into the distance, until he sensed me looking at him, and he looked down at me. Dad looked down at me. Our eyes locked, and my lips parted ever so slightly, and my eyes dropped to his lips.
Fuck. I think I kissed him. I think. I didn’t remember that before. I don’t know. Did I? I think I did. Not long, not for too long, but for longer than a daughter kisses her father. It wasn’t a peck.
Fuck. Did I kiss him? Did I kiss Dad then?
Did he kiss me back? Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I can’t remember. I don’t know if it happened. Did I kiss him? Did he kiss me?
I wonder if he remembers. I have to ask him.
Anyway, we danced. He held me close, and I held him close, and then the song ended, and we kept dancing anyway. Eventually he took my hand and led me to the bar, where he settled our tab. I remember my eyes being half closed, like I was sleepwalking. I stumbled along after him as he led me first to the bar, and then out the door, and then into a cab.
In the back seat I rested my head on his chest, nestled under his arm, not quite falling asleep, but not entirely awake. I really don’t know how drunk he was. Pretty drunk, I’m sure. I know I felt warm and safe and happy.
I let my hand fall down onto his crotch. I just left it there, not daring to move it, but loving the idea that I’d done it. More than that, I loved that he didn’t move it away. In fact, he kissed my hair, at the top of my head.
When he did that I dared to move my thumb, just my thumb. I stroked it back and forth, ever so slowly. I honestly don’t know if he was erect or not. I don’t even know if he could feel it. I just remember doing it.
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