His words ignited this burn before I ever saw his face. It started with the frequency of his voice; effortless and pitchy in that cool-kid kind of way that makes everything sound like heaven. Curling and reaching the dark parts of me best left undiscovered. A gut wrenching and foreboding seed planted deep inside, confirming what I had always known about myself but just couldn’t seem to admit out loud. I was in, game on; this is really happening. It’s hard to know exactly when I first recognized he was all in too, or if it was always an underlying tell hidden just below superficialities that come with meeting someone for the first time. On the phone and over text, it was the way he anticipated every aspect of my being before I could even understand my own self. In person it was the tiny smile on his simple face, the question mark in his probing blue eyes, deep as the ocean and just as undiscovered. The way he spoke to me about things no step-father would ever speak to his newly discovered daughter about. The look. That look. His special gaze reserved only for me.
It was the way his soul reached out to mine from across the world, then across the hotel room, and finally, across the sheets on the bed we shared. If I believed in Karma, I’m either going to jail or hell. Probably both. Class 4 Felony Father Fucker, that’s me. And those words make my pussy ache in ways I haven’t been able to fully explore alone with my fingers yet. He's my birth mother's husband, a trite father figure, but still. I’ve fantasized about fucking some faceless, nameless, patriarchal archetype for years now. Since I was a teenager or at least since I discovered internet kink. The daddy/daughter thing really did it for me and still does. My number one masturbatory tool that works. Every. Time. So, in a lot of ways, the desire to have a father make me cum has always been with me even before I met my biological mom and realized I was in lust, and maybe even love, with her husband. Before I realized how many years and how many moments, I’d spent longing for him.
I was adopted at birth and have always known this. Unless you’ve been adopted, don’t bother trying to understand. Emotions exist that words could never express for this type of thing. Even so much as whispering such words out loud somehow cheapens the feeling and leaves you vulnerable to criticisms. Some adopted kids, like my brother, don’t really seem to care. I believe it’s not that they don’t care, it’s more so that the fact they were given up at birth doesn’t affect them the way it affects me. The way it’s always affected me. Wanting to know my biological parents has been a primal instinct that’s been with me for as long as I can remember. So has the feeling of rejection, never being good enough and put plainly, just not wanted. I mention this only because I know what you are going to say after you get over the initial shock of comprehending that yes, in fact, I did fuck my father and even worse, I admitted it. Flaunted it even.
You are going to say that I was vulnerable, the child; a victim perpetrated on by my own metaphorical flesh and blood who must be, without a doubt, the seediest pervert around. But I challenge you to abandon this programmed way of understanding what incest should look like. To be honest the act itself was more like he fucked me, on demand, and with great hesitation. Not at all the way daddy/daughter porn led me to believe it would happen. I didn’t wake up to him rubbing his cock in the shadows of my bedroom, eyes closed, breath heavy with desire. Allowing himself to exist, if only for a moment, consumed with dirty pleasure spreading from his dick to his hand and back again, mixed with the terror of being caught by mommy and the excitement of imagining his hot mouth sucking his step-daughter’s eighteen-year-old clit.
I didn’t have to take my clothes off and open my mouth to let him in because I wanted more lunch money or a new pair of shoes. He didn’t catch me smoking cigarettes and bend me over his knee for a spanking only to discover in surprise that my panties were already soaked with juice at the mere thought of his hand touching my ass. He never felt my breasts pounding against his thighs as I squirmed and rotated my body just so to get out of the punishment, making sure to spread my legs wide in case his smacking fingers accidentally slipped in my pussy, an obvious way to invite him inside me. I never had to let him catch me touching myself in a steamy bath, eyes shut and lip bit; pussy rhythmically moving up and down to the beat of my fingers, making small waves in the soapy water that partnered nicely with my soundless moans. I never exposed him to my pierced nipples, hard and erect across the breakfast table, bending over at a rehearsed angle to give him the best view of my creamy skin as I poured the milk onto my cereal.
Nothing about the way it actually happened was organic and I didn’t mean to seduce him by any means with just my conversation alone, at least not consciously. When my birth mother told me my biological father had died in a car crash soon after I was born and adopted away, my heart exploded like a star. I grieved a ghost, the shell of a man my father would never be, knowing him only through blurred and brief memories shared by my birth mom and her husband, who had both known my biological father when he was young and alive. Inevitably and under no manipulation, my step-father wholeheartedly took on the role of said father figure, loving me unconditionally and as much as my birth mother did, right from the start. Kirsten and Patrick quickly became mom and dad and the girl I once was disappeared along with a lifetime of pain from being adopted, just like that.