Incest and rape are wrong, and should happen only in fiction, which this is.
---
He crept into her room one night. He simply stood there for a long while, drinking in the sight of his daughter's face and feet poking out of her sheets. She had been the platonic love of his life ever since his wife had died giving birth to her. He had cared for her, provided for her, made her the center of his existence. He had no intention of remarrying, or even of having any relationships outside the one he had created with his wife, now deceased. Instead, he had poured all the love and devotion he had had for her into his love and devotion towards his daughter.
He had never seen her as anything other than his beautiful, precious daughter. She was everything to him. All that he had, he would give her in a heartbeat.
And so it had been, for a long time. Such a long time.
Then she left. He was happy to see her grow from the foundations he had laid, loved to see how she excelled. But from the first few weeks after she had moved out that summer, he began to realize that as well as pride and accomplishment and hope, he felt another emotion he was not proud of. She had never failed to show appreciation for all the good things he did for her. He knew that she felt grateful for the advantages he had provided. And yet there was a small voice, growing louder and louder as the months wore on, growing louder even though he told himself the voice was not being fair or rational. "How dare she?" was what the voice wanted to yell. "How could she leave me?"
And now, for a few days, she was back. She had no need for a car and so he'd gone in his own to pick her up from her dorm. It was during the long drive back that he noticed her legs for the first time.
Her visit was absolutely unexceptional, banal family visit stuff, and as they chatted and as he took her from restaurant to shopping mall to friend's house and so on, he found it harder and harder to take his mind--his eyes--off of her legs. And then the tummy she loved to show off. Her beautiful long neck.
The swell of her breasts.
Her wonderful, lovely, gracious and clever countenance.
And, to his surprise, he felt no guilt. She was beautiful, who could deny it? During her brief stay, why not enjoy what she now apparently had to offer?
Today, her final day staying in the house for this short vacation, he had taken her to a farewell dinner he arranged with her friends. The girls laughed and faux-flirted with each other and the waitstaff, while he smiled and stayed relatively quiet, not wanting to be the old man who ruins the "vibe".
His daughter looked at him occasionally. He felt more and more certain. She was glancing at him, not to communicate, not to share a moment of comfort or connection. She was watching him. She watching him watch them. Watch her.
He hadn't want to think it out loud to himself but, her dress. It was shorter than it had to be. It was lower cut than it needed to be. It left her back bare, he believed she clearly was wearing no bra.
She knew he would be at the gathering. Why dress like that? Why watch him so closely this evening?
On the drive home they were both silent. This was unusual. Why was she silent? Why was he?
Her shoulder strap on her right side, certainly she was not being so careless as to leave the one facing him down over her shoulder. But the one away from him, the one he could plausibly appear not to notice--that had fallen, and she'd done nothing to correct it.
As he hugged her goodnight, as the hug ended, she took his face in her hands, almost maternally. "Thank you, Dad, it was a wonderful night." She leaned in and he almost quaked, shrunk back, ran away--and she tilted his head down a little and kissed his forehead. Just as it had seemed at the beginning of the gesture--maternal.
She went to bed, and he was left on his own, ruminating on the long, painful drive that would take her away from him again tomorrow.
And here he was, now, as she slept, appraising her in a way he never had before.
He stepped forward. Carefully, carefully. He removed her sheet.
---
He was surprised, and pleased, to find nothing else was there to keep her warm - not a single piece of clothing. His daughter, like his wife before her, apparently preferred to sleep in the nude. Or, he was beginning to allow himself to suspect, perhaps she usually did not.
She lay there on her back, one arm back under her head, one arm splayed out over the edge. This stretched her chest upwards. Her chest, as beautiful as he had begun to imagine. He allowed his gaze (his heart rate rising enormously together with another part of himself), to rest there for a time. He allowed his imagination to kiss her breasts, to stroke her nipples.
He then continued his imaginary journey downwards, touching her tight tummy in his mind, he could almost feel himself leaning in to kiss her bare pubis. In a manner similar to the way her arm was splayed out, so also her legs--one bent at the knee to curl back under the other, but the effect of this was to open her hips to him, to invite him to consider what was between them. Why did she shave it? For how long had that been happening?
For as much as part of him revulsed at the thought of a man seeing his own daughter in this way--for that long, nevertheless, did he continue watching, her tummy rising and falling slowly behind the focus of his new longing.
He moved on, wanting to miss nothing.
With his imagination he brushed her long legs and caressed her feet.
And finally he looked back up, at her face. Even in sleep, her expression exuded easy confidence. Was she dreaming of her future, of a future he had envisioned for her, full of accomplishment and mastery? A future in which she glided to the top and looked down at those she'd left behind, her inferiors?
---
He had known he would do this but had banished all thought of it from himself until the deed was done. And now, he was kissing her feet. Tenderly, he worked his way up, trying not to breath, but insisting on feeling her legs with his lips.
He told himself he could do these things without waking her, if he was careful.
He also wondered intensely, how she would react when she did awaken. How would she express the desire she had been expressing, and encouraging, this evening?
He was kissing her shins, her thighs, her iliac crest. Her pubis.
He stayed there a while, gently, aware that any force would trigger an awakening, and knowing he must take pains to never intend that to happen.
He moved on, finally, after resisting a surprising temptation to kiss those lips nearby, to simply throw caution to the wind and begin to probe with his tongue.
He continued upwards, kneeling beside her, kissing her tummy, her ribs. Her chest. He risked the smallest touch of his lips upon her nipples. She still had not awakened!
He moved up to kiss her shoulders, her neck. Her cheeks. He stared in awkward lust, his eyes mere inches from her face, able to appreciate every detail.
He stood, and was amazed at what he had accomplished so far. His thoughts turned toward the door.
His hands turned towards his belt.
Quietly he undressed, and carefully, gingerly, climbed as unobtrusively as he could onto her bed, over her body.
And now his face was over hers. Her legs, one bent at the knee, he would gently begin to move with his own legs until his penis--yes, he insisted on emphasizing to himself, her father's penis--was in position to enter. He knew this, finally would begin to wake her, and he was prepared. He knew she would respond in love to his acknowledgment of their silent communications earlier in the evening. But even if she did not respond positively, he was now determined.
Shaking a little, he placed his left knee in the crux of her bent right knee, and began scooting her shin away from its sister.
And finally, lazily, she opened her eyes. He had resolved, and followed through on his resolve, to not look away at this point--to show how firm and loving his intentions were, to respect her gaze by maintaining his.
He waited for her relieved smile to begin. She seemed to be taking in the situation. The head of her father's penis was now touching the place she would now gladly open for him.
But, without a smile, instead of a smile, she opened her mouth and spoke. It wasn't what she said that surprised him - it was the way she said it. Cool, calm, purposeful, unperturbed.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?"
---
He realized she was so collected, she must have been awake for quite a while. She was ready for him. Had she felt every thrilling kiss? From her feet, to he pubis, to her chest, to her neck? Had she lay there silently, allowing him to do it? Did this confirm her invitation?
But there was nothing inviting about her face now. Accompanying her annoyed words and tone was an annoyed squint, a squint that lived on the border of anger.
He opened his mouth to speak. He had mentally rehearsed for this. He was to be firm but gentle. He would be clear and explicit about the subtext of their interactions tonight. Even if she denied it, he would make her see she owed him, if in fact her glances and manner of dress were deception.
He had decided, he would not take no for an answer. But he also was sure he would not hear one. She was to be happy he was giving her this gift, and if she wasn't, he was sure he would convince her to be acquiescent, to understand, to perhaps even take satisfaction in doing him this service.
If not immediately, then over time, she would see that she was for him just as much as he was for her.
That was what happened in rehearsal.
When he opened his mouth to speak, however: "I, uh - well, I think it's time - I mean, this is, we have to - I mean you have to - uh..."
By then it was too late. He suddenly gave out a nearly comical yelp.
---
Her hands closed more and more tightly on his balls. He was suddenly trying to get away when a second before he had been determined to be inside her. But he couldn't get away - he couldn't even try. It would only cause the pressure on his balls to increase. She had him - he couldn't move. So he froze.
She turned up the pressure, and he whimpered, not even conscious of the shame and embarrassment he should be feeling at this moment.
His daughter looked at him angrily, her eyes slitted, her mouth an odd sort of smile. "We fuck," she said.
"DAD," she continued pointedly.
"When I SAY we fuck." She squeezed harder.
"On my terms. Do you hear me, asshole?"
His eyes closing, his mouth pinched from the pain, he nodded as best he could, weakly.
She shoved him away by the balls, which hurt even more than what she had been doing before, but at least relieved the pressure. He skittered off her bed, his knees on the floor, but before he could regain his composure she had sat up and put her legs on either side of him. She grabbed him by the hair. She held his gaze. He now had a moment to look at her again.
Her powerful, young, masterful body was more desirable than ever before.
She was holding him in place. Certainly he was stronger than her but she had him by the hair and escaping from her grasp would not only hurt, but involve an entirely shameful struggle to escape from his own tiny daughter's grasp. And what could he do next, anyway? He stayed put.
She was momentarily allowing him to gaze at her up and down. With one hand she was holding his hair, with the other she was spreading open her pussy lips. It was incredible - he almost came on the spot to see his daughter doing this.
And then she began to push his face in towards her, and she said the words to him:
"Suck my pussy, dickwad."
And he complied. She closed her legs in around his neck and locked him into place.
---
He had imagined, in response to the secretive flirting he was sure they engaged in all evening, that they might spend a long night together. And they did. His daughter had indeed been ready. Very ready, just as he had hoped.
As he had hoped, but not as he had expected. As his expectations became less and less like reality, his heart sunk lower and lower--but what else could he do, now, but obey?
Later that night she did eventually allow him to put his penis inside her. But only after he had made her cum several times. He would make her cum with his tongue, or she would make herself cum while he licked her asshole. Then she would pull him up towards him, and play with his penis and nipples til he was almost ready to squirt his load, explaining to him how ridiculous and old he looked. And she would then send him back down to her pussy, fucking his face once more until she came again.
This went on til she finally got bored. She was tickling his dick for the last time that night, giggling derisively at its every twitch, After a couple of distracted sighs, she rolled her eyes.
"Alright whatever. If you have to do it, do it now and get off of me."
She scowled at him, then lay back and looked up at the ceiling rolling her eyes again, ignoring him, grabbing her phone and paying attention, apparently, to anything else. He gingerly, slowly, as though it couldn't possibly be true, crept from his daughter's side into position on top of her. She didn't take her eyes off of her phone.
He was at her vaginal lips. The shaking in his arms, in his whole body, came not from lack of strength or endurance but from the sheer audacity of what he was about to do -- and the excitement that came with it.
There was no connection with her. This was no expression of love, or any kind of emotion at all. All the value he had built up into the thought of this moment--all of it evaporated with her turned-aside face thinking about everything in the world but him. He was a disgusting man using a body, nothing more. What he was about to do, he could have done with a manniquin. Realizing so truly what he was about, he felt shame.
His story about himself had evaporated, and he remained as ready--even more ready--than ever, to finally simply fuck the body of his daughter with all pretense cast aside. And so he did.
He could see perhaps the slightest sign of discomfort pass over her face as he began to push his dick firmly into her pussy. As he penetrated, her eyes went wide for the tiniest of split seconds, and her pelvis moved slightly into place under him, before she once again retreated into her phone, chuckling at something she was reading.
When he tried to kiss her she slapped him, saying, "That's disgusting, hurry the fuck up or you won't get to finish," then with a kind of triumphant derision, she finished her sentence: "DADDY."
He continued his fucking obediently, trying to take in the experience, to imprint on his mind the feeling of his daughter's vagina warming the length of his cock. Without thinking, out of instinct born of his decades-past prior sexual relationships, he lowered himself and kissed her nipple. So she grabbed him by the hair, scratched his face cruelly, and said "Strike two, you silly. Fucking. Bitch."
He grunted and moaned, "I'm sorry," and knew he'd better not fuck this up again or he'd never be allowed to finish. She scoffed, and returned to her phone.
She only showed any further sign of awareness of what was happening when he began to ejaculate into her. She looked down at him briefly, a look of annoyance and disgust on her face, then looked up at the ceiling, rolled her eyes and just whispered "ew."
As his ejaculation ended, he began to fall down upon her, out of breath, picturing his sperm making its way deep into his own daughter's reluctant womb. Before his body could make further contact with hers scratched his chest and ribcage sharply, saying, "Jesus, no, get off of me you disgusting piece of shit!"
He rolled off of her, his face gaping open like a landed fish, trying to catch his breath.
He didn't know what the rest of the story could possibly be. His head swimming with thoughts, somehow triumphant, regretful and defeated all at once, he asked "What... now..." between pants.
"God," she said, glancing meaningfully downwards, "Obviously you clean your mess."
After she had him clean his own cum out of her pussy with his mouth, and made him give her yet another orgasm, she collapsed on her back.
Her own breath caught back up, she said with a scowl, "You are seriously the worst, 'dearest father.' You were just going to what, rape your own daughter, 'Dad?'"
Quietly, he told the truth. "Yes."
"Yeah, fuck you. I let you do it this time basically because I was bored and curious to see if you might pull something off, but no. You could at least have made it fun. That was fucking boring Dad. It felt like nothing."
She sat up and put her face close to his where he was sitting on her bed trying to make himself as small as possible. She pushed his body backwards towards the edge of the bed.
"Alright cocksucker, this is what will happen every time I let you make me cum," she said. And she pushed him off her bed. He fell to the floor. "You'll speak only when spoken to, and you'll sleep there when I'm done."
The floor was cold linoleum. He was naked. He had no pillow.
"From now on, you will never cum, you will never have sex with anyone much less me, without my say so. Do you understand?"
The door was open - he could just walk right out. But then what?
"I understand."
She grinned. "Mistress daughter. That's what you call me from now on."
His voice quavered. "Yes mistress daughter. I understand mistress daughter."
"I may never let you fuck me again. I may never let you fuck anyone, or cum in any way, and you will obey because if you don't I will tell the police about how you are a fucking rapist."
He teared up. "Yes mistress daughter."
"Good" she said after a second. "Okay. You know how much I would like to just kick you on the floor, over and over right now. But I know you'd like it so fuck."
Without a word, she turned around, clearly knowing full well he would not be going anywhere. Except for telling him at one point to stop his fucking crying, she proceeded to ignore him for the rest of the night. She stayed on her phone, texting her friends for a long while.
And so he slept, on the cold hard floor, below the foot of his daughter's bed.
He slept to thoughts of what horrible things his mistress daughter might do from now on. He slept knowing the real reason he was not leaving, the reason why she could, and would, leave him at will and he could never leave her. He slept knowing there was no escape, because there was no desire for escape. He had said it many times in the past.