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Never again.
I don’t know, and I don’t want to know how often I have told myself these two words. Never again.
Never again will I be so stupid to try to put my nightly fantasiesinto action. Never again will I wallow in feverish hopes and illusions,only to see them shatter against reality. Never again.
And then I’m standing naked in my kitchen, smearing Vaseline into myass and trembling like a little child about to get spanked. And I hearvoices in my head screaming at me: No way! Go, go! You can’t really bedoing this! You’ve got to go through with this now! Stop it! No, there’sno turning back now!
But let’s double back a little.
It’s almost two weeks ago now; I have waited for this day for a longtime. Not only have I waited, though, I have prepared myself for what Ihope will come to pass. You’ve seen me shoving half-cooked carrots up myass to get used to the feeling, to learn to enjoy it; but when I thinkof the force with which I have felt men pushing their penises inside me,I’m still trembling with fear and excitement at the same time. How isit going to feel? Will I enjoy it?
Well, at least I’m sure it will be memorable.
My father is scheduled to visit me today, coming to my flat for thefirst time since that fateful night in January when he tried to rape mein a drunken stupor. For quite some time after that, I had sincerelyhoped that he’d forgotten all of that, because he never called to makeexcuses as I was sure he would normally have done; but seeing as hecalled me two times in the last few days just to confirm that, yes, itreally is alright with me if he comes by my flat, and no, I don’t wantto meet him somewhere else or even not at all, ’cause he “wouldunderstand that, you know”, I guess he knows pretty well what he did tome then.
What he almost did to me then, and what I have regretted for so longthat in the end he did not. But that’s the past; what’s gone is gone.
Today it’s different.
The last time I saw him, at his girlfriend’s place, he exploited thefact that he was massaging me to dip a finger into my anus, drawingsensations I had never felt before. Lacking the ability to talk to himin any way about these matters, I took the action to be a statement ofinterest, even a promise, and I’ve been looking forward to having itfulfilled for weeks.
He’s coming now. He’s late again, with a bad conscience; I hear himrunning up the stairs, and when he stands in the doorway, he’s pantingand his face is glistening with sweat.
I’m wearing a light skirt with nothing under it, having cranked upthe heating to entice him to shed as many of his clothes as possible. But looking at him now, standing in front of him in the skimpy whitedress through which, I’m sure, he can clearly see my nipples poking out,I feel ridiculous and ashamed.
“Hey,” I say, neither embracing him nor kissing him the way I hadimagined I would, the way I’d been resolved to do right up until themoment he was there. I see his gaze running along my body for a moment,then quickly looking away, over my shoulder. “Erm, hello,” he replies,looking around with an emphasis that is almost funny to avoid staring atmy breasts. I can’t help blushing and make my retreat, turning slightlyaway from him, bringing my hands to my face in an affectedly innocentgesture to cover my nipples.
“You look… hot,” I spurt out, before realizing the double entendreand blushing even more. “I mean… maybe you’d like to take a shower?”
“Oh… yes, erm, if it’s not a problem?” My father has a way ofphrasing every request and even every statement that he’s not completelysure about as a question, which used to annoy me lots when I wasyounger. Now, I guess, there are just so many other things that annoy meeven more that this one doesn’t even figure.
“Sure!” I reply, maybe a tad too enthusiastically; I guess theexpression on his face means that while he’s not too comfortable taking ashower in his daughter’s messy little bathroom, he’s even lesscomfortable around me and sort of glad for the excuse to have some timealone before he has to face me again.
Only that as soon as the bathroom door closes behind him, I can feelthe hormones racing in my body, telling me to pursue another courseentirely.
Putting an ear against the door, carefully, slowly, so he won’tnotice, I can hear him undressing clumsily, hitting his elbow on thetowel railing at one point and hissing an annoyed curse.
Weak with excitement, I pull the skirt over my head in an impulsivegesture, letting it drop to the floor to emphasize my forceddon’t-give-a-damn attitude. The shower is running now, and here I am,standing naked mere two and a half meters from my equally naked Dad,ready to fling open the material and symbolic door between us andembrace him, wet as he is; and wet as I am myself.
But no; not quite ready.
On unsteady feet, my teeth clattering with nervousness, I tiptoe tomy room, trying to be as silent as possible for some reason, andretrieve the box of Vaseline I’ve placed conspicuously beside my bed. Back in the kitchen, right next to the bathroom door, I bend over thekitchenette and smear handfuls of Vaseline into the crack of my ass,even putting a crown of the white cream on my middle finger and pushingit some way into my anus so I’m lubricated from the inside as well.
God, what am I doing? Stop this, the voices inside my head arecalling. Take the Vaseline box and the skirt and run back to your room,maybe you can still change in time before your Dad comes out… the showeris still running, you still have a chance… break off now and live inpeace…
No.
Breathless with agitation, I walk up to the bathroom door, where Ihesitate for five deep breaths and about fifty heartbeats. When Ifinally dare to put my fingers on the door handle, the shower suddenlygoes out.
I almost turn and run; I know this is my last chance to turn back. Every sensible nerve in my body screams at me to do it, to leave now andsave what can still be saved.
But I don’t. No, I tell myself, exercising more willpower than I everthought I had; I have to go through with this now, because if I don’t,I’ll be caught in the web of my fantasies forever. If it works, thenI’ll be happier than ever before, or at least that’s what I like to tellmyself; and if it doesn’t work, at least I’ll be so disillusioned thatI’ll shirk from plans and fantasies like this in the future.
Do it, now!
And I do it.
Pushing open the door with the same feeling one might have whenpulling out a barbed arrow that has buried itself deep into one’sstomach, I open the door and step into the bathroom, ready to ask myfather to stick his penis up my ass. “Daddy,” I want to say, but myvoice breaks. I’m paralyzed; all I can do is stand there and behold.
My Dad is masturbating. When I open the door, his face is squinchedin concentration while his left hand is working at his penis, pressingand rubbing the shaft in jerking movements. At the sound of the dooropening, he immediately stops, almost collapsing with surprise andpanic, and tries to turn away from me; but I can see that it’s too late. His penis is already twitching and squirting semen on the wall, andhe’s contracting as if he wanted to curl up and vanish inside himself.
I feel awful for him. How must he feel, having his own daughter catchhim masturbating, and even worse, having his own daughter drop in onhim and standing naked in front of him while he comes without wantingit? Once again, I’ve managed to put my father into an impossiblesituation; and once again, there’s no way I can even think of seducinghim now. I am revulsed by him and pity him at the same time; I amashamed and cold and miserable, and there’s nothing I can do to makethings better now.
Neither of us says a word as I stagger back to my room, awkwardlypicking up the skirt and Vaseline box on the way; standing behind thedoor without daring to move or even breathe, I hear him dressing quicklyand leaving my flat, and unlike last time, I am completely sure that heis gone for good.
Still, I wait for what must be twenty minutes before I notice that Iam cold despite the heating, and putting my skirt back on I teeter tothe bathroom, wanting nothing more than to wash the cream out of my ass.
But when I get into the shower, I can’t help but notice the slimetrails on the wall where his sperm hit the tiles; and following themwith my eyes, I see that the thick white-yellowish globs have puddled onthe rim of the shower tray, ready to be washed away by the first gushof water. My first thought is that my father must have been so outragedthat he didn’t even think of cleaning up behind him; while the secondthought goes in another direction entirely.
Not really, one of the condemning voices in my head is snorting.
But I do it. Slowly and carefully, I sit down on my ankles, then onmy shins. I have to stick my feet out of the shower tray to be able tolower my head enough to get it close to the puddle of sperm; then I takea deep breath through the nose.
Over the shower’s mouldy smell, I recognize the aroma immediately. It’s kind of stale, like black tea that’s gone cold, and mixed with afaint tang of urine and something else, something I don’t know the namefor if it even has a name. Sniffing again, I bring my head down evencloser.
I must admit that I’ve never really tasted sperm before. I never wasone for blowjobs, not until climax anyway; helping a man get hard byusing my lips and tongue is something else entirely than working a dicktill the sperm comes out and actually feeling it on your tongue. I neverdid that, I guess because I always thought it was kind of gross.
But now I have my father’s sperm before me, and although I’m sureit’s all gone cold by now, I vividly remember seeing it squirt out ofhis penis, splashing against the wall, and running down to where it’slying now.
Clenching my fists to prove to myself that I mean it, I put out mytongue and touch it.
It doesn’t taste good; not at all. It’s slimy and salty and mouldyand it tastes much more like pee than it smelt like it, and for a momentI really want to spit it out again and wash my mouth with mouthwash. But I hold it; it’s my father’s sperm, after all, and I bet he spilt itthinking of me, either because he was still thinking of my nipples underthe white skirt or because he had seen me standing naked in front ofhim, my intentions obvious even to someone as dense as him. So I swirlit around in my mouth, trying to learn to appreciate the taste, the way Itried to become used to something hard penetrating my anus.
Then I spit a little of it into my hand, struggling to keep it steadyso the thick stuff doesn’t run off and vanish into the sewer, before Igather the rest of it together at the back of my tongue and swallow itall at once. Closing my eyes, I imagine that I have taken my Dad’s dickinto my mouth, sucking on it until he filled me with his sperm, whosetaste is now everywhere in my mouth and throat, rising up through thenose every time I exhale.
Raising my knees and lying on my back as well as possible in thecramped space, I gingerly move the hand holding the rest of his spermbetween my legs. I’m thinking of him as I rub his semen into me,stretching my fingers to push the sticky stuff all the way into my womb,thinking about my father fucking me, panting into my ears as he movesover me, the tip of his penis touching the entrance to my uterus when hepushes me hard, and finally squirting his load deep inside me, hisvoice breaking with lust and his fingers digging burning furrows intothe skin of my shoulders.
I’m not on the pill right now. I wanted my Dad to take me frombehind, to spill his semen where nobody has spilt it before; but at thesame time, I also got off on the thrill of maybe getting pregnant, onthe very real danger that if I actually managed to seduce him, somethingof his sperm might get to where my fertile eggs were waiting for it, aseager to take it in as I was to feel him inside me.
I know that it’s wrong; I know that I should never ever want to getpregnant by my own father. I know from the literature what children ofclose relatives look like, and all my rants about how incest shouldn’tbe illegal presuppose that incest isn’t interbreeding. But when I’mlying in my bed now every evening, thinking about what I might havedone, reciting quotes I memorized from some sex education books abouthow long sperm cells can survive in a moist environment, the fear thatmakes me shiver also makes me hot, and when I touch myself then I againimagine my Dad coming inside me, saying he shouldn’t, we shouldn’t, wereally shouldn’t, even while he pumps it hot and live into my womb,gasping with lust because it is so wrong, because we are doing what nobody should ever do.
I have not made the test yet; they say it’s too early still. But in a week or so, I guess I’ll know.
And I’m afraid.
.
