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Posted: Tue Dec 11, 2012 5:36 am Subject: I Have Always Loved My Father
by missobscuritee

Author's Note: If you're the type of reader who won't tolerate anything less than a happy ending, then allow me to offer my apologies in advance and save you the trouble of searching for one in this story, because you won't find it here. My goal is to offer an alternative to the notion that "everything is fine," and to venture beyond idealistic fairytales in order to create characters who are three-dimensional, flawed, and have some basis in reality. "Happily ever after" will probably never have a place in any of my work, because it doesn't have a place in the real world. I'm not interested in writing children's books with zesty language and adult situations thrown in for good measure; I'm interested in taking pieces of everyday life and weaving them together for you to observe, no matter how ugly, twisted, or scarred. I hope all of you are able to appreciate what I'm trying to do here, and that it won't become necessary for me to have all of my characters skip off into the sunset in order for me to gain your approval. With that said, I hope you enjoy your read.


I have always loved my father. In grade school I created a thousand finger-paintings in his image and wore many of my crayons down to nothing in an attempt to commit the beauty of his likeness to the dull pieces of my construction paper. He fit into my childhood fantasies with ease, because he was perfect in every way. His career as a senior partner at a prestigious law firm commanded the respect and adulation of his peers, and afforded him the financial freedom to spoil me rotten. My room was filled with toys from floor to ceiling, and there were three walk-in closets dedicated to storing my countless wardrobes, about a dozen for every season. As his only child and main woman in his life since my mother's passing, I was the sole beneficiary of his time and affection, and relished every second that he was able steal away from his office so that he could be there to wake me up in the morning and to tuck me back in at night.

In the summer he would overlook my bedtime so that we could stay up and watch the stars, him rocking gently in the porch swing with me in his lap. I would spend about an hour listening intently to the sound of my father's voice as he gave a name to the constellations that swam in the inky darkness above us, until the rhythmic beating of his heart and the warmth of his embrace lulled me to a peaceful sleep. It wasn't until my twelfth birthday that I began to notice how hard his sculpted muscles felt against the softness of my developing bosom, and how kissable his moist lips looked in the moonlight. As time wore on and the onset of puberty cleared away the remnants of my childhood and replaced it with a burgeoning adolescence, I knew that I loved my father more than I should. He was the color of rich honey in the spring, and a shade of pale wheat in the fall. His green eyes favored the calm waters of the sea, and his closely cropped jet-black curls were soft to the touch. Standing at 6'2' he was a sight to behold, his model good looks evoking a sense of longing in every woman that he came across. I was no exception, and fell victim to his deadly appeal.

The innocence with which I had daydreamed about my father as a child was lost to me as a young adult, and the lustful fantasies that lived in the confines of my mind filled me with such a deep sense of shame that I could hardly stand to look my father in the eyes. Whenever my thoughts were allowed the freedom to roam they always returned to him, his beautiful face and muscular body permanent fixtures in the dark space behind my closed eyelids. Each time I unwillingly imagined him touching me as a lover would, I'd silently curse myself and pray that no one had seen the sorrowful look on my face as I hastily wiped away a stream of tears. "Leave me alone," I'd whimper, hoping that the racy images of him moving deep within me would dissipate at the earnestness of my command, but was only more tortured by the fact that I could no longer convince the palpable material of my conscious thoughts to bend to my will. Unlike most people whose desire brought them nearer to the ones they longed for, my desire for my father pushed me further away from him until he nearly ceased to exist outside of my wayward imagination.

My father's busy schedule allowed me to avoid him with little effort, and on the rare occasion that he was able to reach me before I disappeared into the solitude of my bedroom, I was panic-stricken and anxious. He would draw me into a discussion about the day's events and encourage me to share details of my own before encircling me in his arms and kissing me hello, goodbye or goodnight. If he ever noticed how my body shrank away from his touch or how my voice caught in my throat as I stammered out an excuse to get away, he never mentioned it. Sometimes I thought I saw pain registering in his eyes whenever I broke free of his embrace in favor of spending my time alone, but I could never stare into their beautiful sea-colored depths long enough to be sure. Instead I would dart away as quickly as my feet would carry me before locking myself inside my spacious bedroom, knowing all the while that even though I had closed my door to him, he would be there waiting for me in my dreams.

On the eve of my eighteenth birthday I sat alone in our garden, the sweet aroma of freesia and lilac perfuming the crisp night air. I grabbed a fistful of soil and let it sift through my fingers as I began thinking of ways to kill myself. I plucked a rose from its bush and laid flat on my back, my soft hair spreading out in a fan around me.

"What's the best way to die?" I asked the rose, examining it in the moonlight.

"I could steal daddy's gun and shoot myself in the head, but that would be too messy." I said, turning the flower's stem gently between my thumb and forefinger.

"I could take sleeping pills and chase it with a bottle of liquor, but then I might live," I sighed, fondling the rose's soft petals. My thoughts suddenly turned to my father, and how broken he would be when he discovered my lifeless form. My vision became blurred with tears and I looked away from the single rose in shame, as if the beautiful flower were capable of recrimination

"You might think I'm being cruel little rose, but you don't know how much I suffer. In my head he's my father, but in my heart he's a man, and I'm afraid those two parts of me will never agree. I fantasize about him everyday, and I dream of him every night. I ache for him, and it drives me to do things to touch myself in places..." I drifted off for a moment, reliving the many nights I had spent pleasuring myself to my father's image.

"But then I remember his piggy back rides and the way he used to sing to me when I was sick, and I'm ripped apart by guilt. He loves me with every fiber of his being, but it still isn't enough. I want more from him, and I would sacrifice all that we've ever meant to each other just to get it. I'm a monster," I sobbed, my tears falling softly on the ground beneath me.

"In time my father will forgive me for committing suicide, but he would never forgive me for loving him in such an unusual way. I would rather he grieve for me for the rest of his life than hate me for the rest of mine. I hope you can understand little rose," I said, touching the lovely flower to my lips before placing it back in its bush. I grabbed another fistful of the damp earth before deciding on a way to return to it.

I took advantage of the fact that my father would be working late and grabbed a butcher knife from the kitchen. I brought it upstairs to my bedroom and sat at the edge of my bed, laying five heavy bath towels at my feet. I nervously licked my lips and held the knife up to the light, a chill going down my spine as the light glinted off the tip of the blade's cold, sharp edge.

"Forgive me Daddy," I whispered before plunging the knife into my left wrist. I ignored the pain that exploded in my arm as I jerked the blade upward in a swift vertical motion. Nauseated by the sight of my own blood as it spouted from my torn flesh, I quickly slit my right wrist in the same fashion before vomiting all over the bath towels that were meant to catch my blood. I doubled over in pain and plummeted face first off the edge of my seat, a sickening thud echoing throughout the room as my head connected with the wooden floorboards. As they had always been, my last thoughts before closing my eyes were of my father. The memory of his smile provided me with a sense of calm as I lay there dying, and I welcomed the impenetrable darkness that encircled me with open, bleeding arms.

My father's face had been the last thing I saw before I succumbed to a deep, dreamless sleep, and it was the first thing I saw when I awoke in a hospital bed the next morning.

"Nila," he breathed, gently brushing loose strands of hair away from my face and kissing me lightly on the lips. He brought my limp hand up to his cheek and held it there, tears of relief spilling from his tired, puffy eyes. I could tell that my father had spent the night at my bedside, because his normally clean-shaven face was covered in stubble, and the crisp white dress shirt and perfectly ironed slacks that he wore to work the previous morning were wrinkled and stiff with my drying blood. I stared at the huge red stains covering his arms, chest, and legs, and I knew that my father had been the one to snatch me away from the stillness that settled briefly over my dying body. My eyes moved from his stained clothes to my bandaged wrists, and I wondered how he had managed to reach me in time. As if reading my thoughts, he gave my hand a gentle squeeze before filling in the details of how I had survived.

"I took the night off because I wanted to surprise you. I felt terrible about working such long hours and leaving you at home alone, so I was going to take you out to dinner in order to make it up to you. Thank god I came back when I did; the doctor said if I had found you a second later you would've bled to death." Thinking of how close he had come to losing me weighed heavily on him, and it sent him into a bout of heart-wrenching sobs. Knowing how deeply I had hurt him made me hate myself even more, and I wondered if I wouldn't have been better off losing the life that he had worked so hard to save.

"Daddy...I'm sorry," I croaked, my voice scratchy and hoarse as I struggled to speak. He lifted his head at the sound of my voice, and the pain in his eyes brought me to tears.

"Why'd you do it Nila?" he asked, placing a hand on each side of my face and wiping away my tears with his thumbs. I stared up at the ceiling and refused to answer him, chocking back the truth of my well-guarded secret like a mouthful of bile.

"I swear to you baby, whatever it is I'll fix it. But I can't do anything unless you tell me what's wrong. Nila please," he begged, pressing his forehead against mine so that I was forced to meet his gaze.

"I don't want to hurt you," I whispered, closing my eyes so that I wouldn't have to see the pained look on his face.

"Nothing you say or do can ever hurt me as much as this," he said, gently touching the white bandages that covered my wounds.

"You wouldn't understand," I said. "And even if by some miracle you did understand, you wouldn't be able to accept it." A serious expression came over his face, and he hooked his finger underneath my chin and turned my head until I had no other choice but to look at him.

"Try me," he said. Although his clothes were stained and his face was haggard, it did nothing to diminish his astonishing good looks. I felt a familiar stirring in between my thighs as I stared at him, and it took every ounce of my strength to keep my fingers from venturing underneath my bedcovers right there in front of him in order to satisfy my need. Knowing from past experience that I would never be able to fight the growing sense of urgency in my quivering body, I leapt out of the bed and nearly ripped the IV out of my arm in a mad dash for the privacy of the bathroom. I managed to slam the door and lock it behind me before yanking my underwear halfway down my thighs and sitting with my legs spread on the toilet seat. I leaned against the porcelain as my fingers worked feverishly beyond the swollen lips of my wet, warm vagina. When soft moans began to push their way out of my open mouth, I leaned over and turned on the water in the bathroom sink, hoping the sound of the splashing water would be enough to drown out my mounting pleasure. "Daddy...Daddy...Daddy" I panted.

I closed my eyes and imagined him lifting me up from where I sat and wrapping my long legs around his waist. In my mind, he pressed my back against the bathroom wall and kissed me passionately before yanking my hospital gown up over my hips. He pulled my panties all the way off and began to finger me while exploring my open mouth with his tongue. When sweet juices flowed from my warm center onto his hand, he unzipped his slacks and pulled out his fully erect penis. He teased me by running the head over my throbbing clit until I begged him to put it inside me. I reached down and wrapped my hand around his long, hard shaft, a sharp gasp escaping my lips as I pushed him in as deep as my tight space would allow. He smiled at the boldness of my action and began fucking me against the wall, gradually pushing more and more of himself inside me with each thrust until every inch of him had disappeared. I dug my fingernails into his back as he moved within me, taking me apart with the smooth motion of his hips. He was gentle at first, but by the time my body had grown accustomed to his incredible length and girth, he had grabbed me firmly by my small waist and was slamming into me with such force that I nearly fainted. Suddenly my entire body grew tense and my legs began to shake. Sensing that I was about to climax, my father grabbed a fistful of my wavy hair and quickened his pace. "Cum for me baby," he whispered, pumping faster and harder until I threw my head back and screamed.

The sound of my own voice startled me back into consciousness, and I looked down to see that a combination of my sweat and nectar had flowed like a small river down my trembling thighs. I snatched a wad of toilet paper off the roll and wiped myself clean before pulling up my panties. I slumped against the toilet seat as the ache in my body subsided, and jerked upright when I heard a loud knock on the door.

"Honey, are you alright?" my father asked, his voice filled with concern. The depravity of my actions condemned me, and I was only able to offer a string of incoherent sobs as a reply. I collapsed onto the cold floor, tears pouring from my eyes as I hugged my knees to my chest. "Nila come out of there!" he yelled, banging on the door so hard that the wood splintered beneath his heavy hand. When I didn't obey him, he told me to move away from the door before breaking it in with his shoulder. The door flew off its hinges, and my father stood there looking bewildered as I lay sobbing at his feet. Wordlessly, he scooped me up and cradled me in his arms, rocking me gently back and forth until the last of my tears had fallen. He stepped over the broken door and carried me back into the room, easing himself down on the chair by my bedside with me in his lap. He stroked my long hair and held me close to him, evoking a sense of calm in my troubled soul. My father looked down at me with his sad green eyes and began to sing to me in French, his deep baritone voice sending chills down my spine with the beauty of its melodic, haunting pitch.

"Tais-toi, mon bébé, dors tranquille avec ton papa, oh, mon cher bébé, dors tranquille." He sang the song to me again in English for my benefit, knowing that the meaning of his words in French would be lost to me.

"Hush thee, my baby, lie still with thy daddy, oh my dear baby, do lie still." Forgetting the guilt that had consumed me only moments before, I looked up at my father and smiled.

"Where did you learn to speak French Daddy?" I asked, sounding like the awe-stricken five-year-old that I had once been before my father and I had grown so far apart. He returned my smile and got a faraway look in his eyes, as though he were watching his past unfurl from the corners of his mind.

"My grand-mère—or grandmother—taught me the language when I was a young boy. We lived together in New Orleans, and she despised the common dialect that was used among our neighbors. She referred to it as an abomination and was determined that I learn to speak French properly. Much to her chagrin I didn't share her elitist views, and I utilized both standard French and Creole throughout my childhood and the majority of my adolescence. But once I finished high school and moved away to college, English became my principal language." I ran my fingers through my father's short, soft curls, enjoying the peaceful moment that we shared.

"Happy birthday sweetheart," he said, kissing me on the back of my hand.

"Say it in French!" I begged, wanting to hear again the lovely sound of his voice as he spoke to me in a foreign tongue.

"Bon anniversaire, chérie." I clapped my hands together and squealed in delight, and my father seemed to take pleasure in my lightened mood.

"Je t'aime," he whispered, kissing me softly on my forehead, nose, and lips.

"I don't know what that means Daddy, but I like the way it sounds," I said, blushing under the intensity of his gaze.

"It means 'I love you,' and I do. You're my most precious gift, and I would die if you ever left my side. When I lost your mother, I was devastated. But if I lost you, it would kill me. Do you understand?" he asked.

I nodded my head, guilt pressing down on my shoulders. "I'm sorry I've hurt you, but I didn't feel like I had a choice." He was quiet for a moment, and when he spoke again his voice was soft, his words lilting.

"The reason why you cut yourself...does it have something to do with me?" he asked.

"Yes." I said, unable to lie to him.

"Have I made you unhappy?" I shook my head no.

"Are you angry with me?" Again, I shook my head.

"Do you want something from me?"

My silence was a sign that he had guessed correctly, and I knew from the glimmer of hope in his eyes that he was aware of how close he had come to the truth. For a brief moment I considered telling my father everything. I was too tired to engage him in a tug-of-war over my thoughts, and it was only a matter of time before my ugly, twisted desire revealed itself in spite of my repression. I opened my mouth and was ready to free myself of the heavy burden, but the words died in my throat. My father stroked the sparse stubble on his chin let out a deep sigh, signaling his frustration.

"Honey this is serious. Whatever it is that's bothering you has the potential to send you over the edge, and it would have done just that if I hadn't been there to intervene. Is that what you want?" he asked. I didn't offer a response, because he didn't need one. My bandaged wrists were a glaring reminder of just how far I would go to keep my secrets to myself. He gave me an incredulous look before shaking his head and flashing a row of his gleaming white teeth in a half-hearted smile.

"I see that your mother's beauty isn't the only thing you've inherited. She somehow managed to pass along her stubbornness too," he said, hugging me.

"When they finally allow me to bring you home, there are going to be some changes. I'm going to reduce my workload so that I can spend more time with you, and I'm going to stop accepting my role as a bystander in your life. Okay?" he said, holding me at arms length so that I could meet his gaze.

"Okay Daddy," I smiled, throwing my arms around him and squeezing him tight.

When I awoke the next morning my father was gone, and there was a tall, balding man in his early fifties sitting in the chair where my father should have been.

"Where's my father?" I demanded, searching the room frantically for him.

"Don't worry, he should be back any minute. He was covered in blood, so I suggested that he go home and change. I also recommended that he get some sleep, but I know he won't listen. I can't say that I blame him; if I had a daughter as beautiful as you I'd never leave her side," he said, licking his thin lips. His pale blue eyes greedily drank in my hourglass figure before resting appreciatively on my full breasts. The flimsy material of the hospital gown did nothing to hide my sensual curves, and the doctor stared openly at them while shifting uncomfortably in his seat. He grabbed the metal clipboard that hung from my bedrail and used it to cover his growing erection. He stared into my hazel eyes, which were framed by a set of long, dark lashes. "You are a remarkable young woman. I've never seen anyone who was as beautiful as you. What's your ethnicity by the way?" he asked, his fingertips lightly touching a lock of my long, raven-colored hair.

"I'm of mixed heritage. My father is biracial and my mother was Native American. I don't know much about her because she died while giving birth to me," I said, hoping that the mention of my dead mother would shift the focus of our conversation and soften the raging hard-on that the doctor no longer bothered to conceal. I knew that my ploy had failed when the doctor leaned in close to me and touched a hand to my face.

"I would have guessed that you were Hawaiian, because of your almond-shaped eyes and long hair, but since your mother was Native American I can see where you get your bone structure. You have perfect features, like a Barbie-doll or a figurine. How old are you?" he asked, his breath hot against my skin.

"I just turned eighteen. Yesterday was my birthday," I said, wishing whole-heartedly that my father would return.

"I bet you've had a lot of boyfriends, haven't you? A girl as pretty as you doesn't spend too many nights alone. Are you a virgin Nila?" he asked, placing a hand on my inner thigh. His fingers crept upward until they were pressed against the silky material of my panties. A bead of sweat trickled down his face as he slowly pulled my panties to one side, exposing my bare vagina to the chill of the air-conditioned room.

"Oh God, you feel so good," he panted, ignoring the tears that spilled down my cheeks as he rubbed his index finger against my clit.

"I've been married for twenty-three years, and I've been miserable for twenty-two of them. I only stayed with my wife for the sake of our kids, and now that our three boys are grown I've run out of excuses to go home at night," he said, moving his finger away from my clit and pushing it deep into my hole.

"Sweet Jesus, you're so tight and warm. I'd give anything to be with you, right here in this room" he whispered, his translucent skin flush with excitement. The horrific nature of his actions had frozen me in place, and I could do little more than cry as he penetrated me with his finger. But I found my voice when he removed his erect penis from his slacks and tried to force his way inside me.

"No!" I screamed, shoving him away and sitting up straight. I pushed myself into a corner of the hospital bed, regarding him with a mixture of hatred and fear as I cried.

"Oh jeez, I'm so sorry," he said, stuffing his hard dick back into his pants. "I didn't mean to hurt you, it's just that you're so beautiful and...I lost control of myself. Please forgive me," he said. He cracked open the door and stared nervously out into the hallway, obviously checking to see if anyone had noticed my screams. Satisfied that no one had heard me, he closed the door and returned to my bedside. "I'm really sorry. Here, I'll just have a look at your wrists and approve you for discharge so that you can get out of here, okay?" he said, quickly unwrapping my bandages and examining the stitches that crisscrossed the length of my forearms. When he saw that my wounds were healing properly, he ran his fingers through what was left of his thinning hair and watched in dismay as I continued to sob.

"Look, there's no need for you to tell your father about this. He's still pretty upset about you trying to commit suicide, and mentioning what happened here would only hurt him. You don't want to cause your father any more pain, do you sweetheart?" he asked, his voice laced with apprehension. We both knew that my father's pain would be nothing compared to what the doctor would feel when my father got through with him, and a part of me welcomed the idea of watching the doctor's body go limp as my father strangled him to death. But on a deeper level I was forced to admit that the doctor had made a valid point, no matter how self-serving. My father had been through enough over the last few days, and he certainly didn't need the added stress of me being sexually assaulted right on the heels of my attempted suicide. I loved my father much more than I could ever hate the disgusting pervert that cowered in front of me, so for my father's sake I decided to keep the incident to myself.

"I won't say anything. But if you so much as look at me again I'll change my mind so fast it'll make your goddamned head spin. And if my father doesn't kill you, he'll make you wish he had," I spat, gathering strength from the terror that crept into the doctor's eyes.

"I'm really, really sorry. You'll never see me again, I swear. Just please don't say anything," he stammered, looking less like a predator and more like a frail, brittle old man.

"Get out of my fucking sight!" I yelled as the doctor spun on his heels and nearly tripped in his haste to leave the room.

I got up from the bed and took a long, hot shower, scrubbing furiously at the layer of shame that still clung to me in the wake of my humiliation. I lathered and rinsed until the insult of another man's touch had lifted from my pores and sailed swiftly down the drain, taking with it the stream of tears that poured out from underneath my closed eyelids. I crouched down low in the tub and laid flat on my back, half hoping that the scalding water entering my nose and open mouth would drown me. Just as my lungs began to fill with liquid and steam, someone entered the small bathroom and shut the water off. I opened my eyes to reveal my father, dressed sharply in a long-sleeved shirt and creased slacks, his brows knotted with concern. With a clear disregard for the expensive Italian threads that were tailored to fit his muscular build, he reached into the tub and pulled me to my feet, hugging my naked body close to his.

"I'll never love anyone as much as I love you," I said, wrapping my arms around his waist.

"You say that now bien-aimé, but as soon as you go off to college you'll fall in love and forget me," he said, smiling.

"No Daddy, you don't understand. I love you. I'll always love you. There's no room for anyone else."

"Sweetheart, I know that you love me. Ever since you were a little girl, you've always been close to me. But I also know that you're growing up, and that one day you'll go out into the world and realize that I'm not the only man in it. And when that happens, you'll let me go," he whispered, his lips pressed against my wet curls.

"No Daddy, never. Please don't say that," I sobbed, my vision blurred with tears.

"There's no need to cry angel. Everything will work out for the best. Pretty soon you'll get married and have children, and I'll be there to love you and support you every step of the way."

"But I don't want any of those things; I want you!" I blurted before I could stop myself.

"What did you say?" he asked, holding me at arms length and staring into my eyes. My cheeks turned a deep shade of crimson, and I blushed even harder when I realized that I had forgotten to cover myself. My golden skin shone brightly under the fluorescent lights, droplets of water still clinging to my breasts, stomach, and thighs as I stood naked before him. His eyes traveled the length of my curvy body before he wrapped me up in a large bath towel.

"Vous êtes plus beaux chaque jour," he said before kissing my lips.

"Daddy...?" He smiled at the quizzical expression on my face and kissed me again, making it hard for me to breathe.

"It means, 'You are more beautiful each day.'" He cleared his throat loudly, then directed his attention to the small suitcase that sat on the floor beside his feet.

"I brought a change of clothes for you, so that you wouldn't have to leave here in a hospital gown," he said, picking up the suitcase and handing it to me. "Now hurry and get dressed so we can get out of here."

Neither of us spoke on the ride home. We didn't feel the need to crowd the space between us with words, preferring instead to ride along in silence. He drove his black BMW Z4 Roadster with an arm around my shoulders, holding me close to him as he navigated the scenic route with one hand on the steering wheel. I closed my eyes and was on the verge of sleep when we came to a stop in front of our beautiful two-story home. My father saw that I was tired and opened the passenger side door. He unfastened my seatbelt and lifted me up in his arms, carrying me upstairs to his bedroom. He pulled my dress over my head and took off my high-heeled shoes, leaving me only in the lacy black bra and panties that I wore underneath. He tucked me in to his bed and kissed me tenderly on the lips. I feigned slumber as he began removing his clothes, folding his slacks and shirt neatly before placing them in a hamper. I could see the well-defined outline of his manhood through the form-fitting material of his briefs, and I admired the way it hung wide and low as he moved about the room. I also took in the way the dim light danced across his bulging muscles before he extinguished it, plunging the room in darkness. When he climbed into bed next to me a dull ache began to resonate throughout my body. Knowing that I wouldn't make it through the night with him being so near, I threw back the covers and planted my feet on the polished hardwood floor. I intended to lie in my own bed so that I could quiet the urge that was burning within me, but before I could stand up my father reached out and caught me by the waist. "Where are you going?" he asked, hooking his arm around me and dragging me across the bed until our bodies touched. He kissed me softly on my neck, and again on my cheek. "Um, I think it would be better if I slept in my own bed tonight. I toss and turn in my sleep, and I don't want to disturb you," I said, pressing my legs together in an effort to curb my arousal. "From now on this is your bed. I threw your old bed away and turned your room into a lounge because I couldn't stand the thought of you sleeping in there after what happened. Besides, I need to keep a close eye on you," he said, leaving me without an excuse to get away. He gathered me up in his arms and rolled me over until I was lying on top of him, his bulge pressing tightly against my moist center.

"Daddy please," I begged, unable to hide my desperation. "I promise I won't hurt myself again. I can sleep in the guest room down the hall, or in—"

"Shhhh," my father said, placing his index finger over my lips. "There's no sense in arguing petite fille, because I've already made up my mind," he said, the finality in his voice letting me know that he wouldn't be swayed by my objections. His hands moved from my waist down to the curve of my ass, and the feel of his palms against my bare bottom broke apart the last of my self-restraint. What little control I had over the functions of my body deserted me, and I watched in silent horror as I sat up began grinding my warm pussy against my father's sleeping dick. I squeezed my eyes shut and worked my hips in a frenzy, my movements becoming more deliberate as I felt my father's body respond. His briefs were pulled taut over his hard shaft, and his erect penis struggled to free itself of the restrictive material. After only a few minutes the sensation became too much for me, and an orgasm tore through my body. A trail of my passion flowed from my dripping cunt onto the front of my father's briefs, soaking the stretchy cotton. I put my hands over my face as hot tears spilled from my eyes.

"Please don't hate me," I said, quivering with fear. My father rose slowly, sitting upright with my legs wrapped around his waist. He grabbed a fistful of my hair and yanked my head back, running the tip of his tongue up my neck and over my chin before reaching my gaping mouth. His kiss was a thousand times sweeter than any I had ever imagined, and I savored the taste of him as his tongue wove slow circles around my own. He swept my long hair to one side and unhooked my bra, massaging my breasts as he let my bra fall to the floor. He stroked my nipples with his thumbs until they were almost as hard as the long, thick shaft that was pressing into the soft lace of my panties. He laid me gently on my back and took each nipple into his mouth, sucking and licking them as I cried out in ecstasy. He slid off my panties and tossed my legs over his shoulders, kissing my second pair of lips as deeply as he had the first. He coaxed my clit from its hiding place with his tongue and licked it while stimulating my g-spot with his middle finger. I dug my heels into the bed and arched my back, my trembling thighs tightening like a vise around my father's head.

"Oh Daddy ...ahhhh...AHHHHHHHH!" A stream of warm liquid shot from my pulsing cunt into my father's mouth, and he lapped it up as if it were the sweetest thing he'd ever tasted. He sat up, licking the last drop of moisture from his lips as I writhed in pleasure.

"Come here," he whispered, removing his underwear and laying on his back. When I regained my composure, I crawled on my hands and knees in between his legs until my face hovered above his throbbing dick. He put a hand in my hair and gently pushed my head down until I had taken him in my mouth. I sucked him deep into my throat, relishing the way his long, hard cock felt against my tongue. His loud moans encouraged me to test my limit, and I opened my mouth as wide as it would go in order to accommodate the entirety of his twelve inches along with most of his sac. It was his turn to scream as I pushed him in and out of my mouth, sucking and licking him as if it were the last thing I'd ever do. After awhile my father flipped me onto my back and spread my legs. He entered me gradually, feeding me his pulsing dick inch by inch until he was able to pump in and out of my tight, virgin pussy with ease. I clung to my father for dear life as he moved within me, the solid oak headboard nearly splintering into a thousand pieces as it slammed against the wall with each of my father's powerful thrusts. I could hardly breathe as he fucked me into oblivion, the intensity of his lovemaking so profound that I nearly forgot how to draw air into my lungs. He pinned my arms high above my head and interlocked his fingers with my own, loving me hard and fast, then slowly and sweetly for what seemed like hours before we collapsed in orgasm. We cried and held each other as he filled me with his seed, my father pumping hard and deep until the last of his semen had flowed from the tip of his penis into my welcoming center. We kissed through our tears, and the sweet, sticky mixture of his cum and my juices created a warm sensation as it snaked down my inner thigh.

"How long have you known?" I asked, pressing my damp forehead against his and closing my eyes.

"I've always known. You've never had any secrets from me," he said, kissing me tenderly.

"Why didn't you ever try anything with me before now if you knew how much I needed you?" I asked, unable to understand why he had let me suffer.

"Because I had to hear you say it. This was a big step for us to take, and I didn't want to push you before you were ready," he said.

"When did you first realize that you wanted me too?" I asked, raking my fingernails over his back.

"When you were fifteen. I came home early from work one evening, and I saw that the light was on in my study. I went to go turn it off, but stopped when I heard soft moans coming from inside. The door was cracked, and I saw you lying naked on top of my desk with your fingers in between your legs. I was angrier than I had ever been in my entire life, because I was sure that at any moment some teenaged punk was going to replace your fingers with his dick. I thought to myself 'this is my worst nightmare come true. I'm going to catch my little girl fucking some lowlife in my house, and then I'll be sent to prison for killing him with my bare hands.' But I opened the door a little wider and was surprised to see that you were all alone. And I was even more surprised when you reached a climax and called out my name. As I watched you cum all over my desk and scream for me, it took everything I had to keep from fucking you. And when you curled up into a ball and cried, it took everything I had to keep from holding you. You were so beautiful yet so tortured, and I knew that I'd never be able to look at you the same way again. Right or wrong, I was in love," he said, his green eyes shining.

"I thought you would hate me," I said, wiping away my tears.

"I could never hate you mon amour. You mean more to me than anything in this whole world, and I plan to spend the rest of my life with you, if you'll let me," he said, running his fingers through my hair.

"I'll never leave you," I whispered, grabbing him by the hips and pushing him back into me as deep as he would go. We both moaned, and he made love to me again and again until we were overcome by sleep.

When I told my father I would never leave him, I had no way of knowing that I had already lied to him twice. The first time I left, my father carried me away kicking and screaming, and the second time I left, I walked out on my own. But both times I left him, and the second time I never came back.

The first time I left was to attend college. For months we fought bitterly about whether or not I should receive a higher education, and we reached a breaking point the night before I was scheduled to leave for Princeton. My father was stuffing a mountain of my clothes, shoes, and toiletries into a series of designer suitcases, because I had refused to do any of the packing myself. I stood and watched as he emptied out my closet and filled all eleven suitcases with my stuff, meticulously separating my things and labeling each piece of luggage so that I would know which items went where. Neither of us spoke as he transferred my personal belongings to the suitcases, and ten minutes had passed before I realized that I had been holding my breath. By the time he finished we were both in tears, and I couldn't control my anger any longer. I walked over to the suitcases and emptied each one, dumping the contents that had taken my father hours to pack out onto the floor. His mouth hung open in shock as I ruined all of his hard work, and he was speechless when I began to shout.

"Why are you forcing me to do this? It's obvious that you don't want me to leave as much as I don't want to go, so why can't I stay here with you?" I yelled, picking up an empty suitcase and throwing it across the room. The loud crash of the suitcase hitting the bedroom wall snapped him out of his stunned silence, and his voice boomed throughout the entire house.

"You're going to college Nila, and that's final! What would you think of me if I let you waste all of your knowledge and talent just so I could keep you here?" he asked.

"I'd think that you must love me as much as you say you do! I'd think that you're not a heartless sonofabitch that cares more about money and status than actually spending time with me!"

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

"You want me to go off to some bullshit Ivy League school and get a high-powered job just like you did so that I won't embarrass you whenever you play 'who has the better kid' with all of your snobby friends! It means that you're so shallow and selfish that you don't even care how much it hurts me to leave you! It means that you don't really love me!" I screamed, picking up two more suitcases and hurling them out into the hallway. My father closed the distance between us in three long strides and backed me up against the wall, his face only inches away from my own.

"Don't you ever say that I don't love you," he growled, his hands gripping my arms so tightly that I winced in pain. "You know I don't give a shit about what anyone else thinks; all I've ever cared about is you."

"If you care about me so much then why are you sending me away?" I sobbed, my cheeks wet with tears.

"Because you need to have a life outside of me Nila," he said, his voice resolute.

"Why would I need to have anything outside of you when everything that I'll ever want or need is standing right here?" I asked, staring up at him.

"Nila, everything that you know is standing right here, but who's to say that what you want or need isn't somewhere else?" he asked. The cold nature of his words frosted the air between us, chilling the blood that ran through my veins.

"So that's it huh? You think I'm going to go off to college and spread my legs for the first guy that I see, and forget that I ever loved you? How could you say that to me?" I screamed, drawing my hand back and slapping him hard across the face. He grabbed both my wrists and slammed me into the wall with such force that I nearly blacked out.

"You're so busy running your fucking mouth that you've forgotten how to listen," he said, his voice low and threatening.

"I'm all that you know, but am I really all that you want? Could you be happy living on the fringes of society, lying to everyone about me and what we mean to each other? I've already lived my life, so I know what's at stake. But how could I ask you to sacrifice everything in order to be with me if you don't even know what you're giving up?" he said, staring me hard in the face.

"But I love you!" I cried.

"We'll see," he said flatly before walking over to my pile of clothes and packing them all over again.

"I don't understand...I don't understand!" I wailed, sliding down the wall and crying into my hands.

"I want you to have a chance at a normal life. I don't want you to stay here with me just because I'm what you're used to. Go to college, make some friends, fuck someone else besides me, and then tell me if I'm still the right man for you. But I'll never believe that I am unless you've done those things. In fact, I won't touch you again until you do."

"DADDY PLEASE!!!!" I screamed, running over to where he stood and throwing my arms around him. "You're just upset right now, that's all. Let's go to bed and forget about this," I begged, kissing his neck and unfastening his belt buckle.

"Stop," he said softly, closing his eyes.

"I know you don't mean it Daddy. I'll make things right again," I said frantically, dropping to my knees in front of him. I unzipped his pants and pulled out his dick. It hardened as I stroked it, and grew in length when I opened my mouth and began to suck.

"Nila stop," he said firmly, a tear running down his cheek. I sucked him faster and harder, holding onto his legs as I pumped his dick in and out of my mouth.

"I SAID STOP!" he yelled, shoving me aside and zipping up his pants. I scrambled to my feet and reached for him again, and was shocked when he backhanded me across the mouth. The blow was so powerful that I flew backward onto the bed, where I curled up and began to cry.

"I meant every word of what I said," he panted, still winded from our struggle. "And if you don't believe me then you're only lying to yourself. You're getting on that plane to Princeton tomorrow, and I don't want to see you again until you graduate."

My heart imploded in my chest, and I doubled over in pain. The thought of being away from my father for four years was too much for me to handle, and I threw up in revulsion. Unfazed by my suffering, my father packed the last of my things and lined my suitcases up against the wall.

"Be ready by seven," he said before leaving the room, closing the door softly behind him.

"Nila, it's been a whole week since you graduated. Aren't you going to go home?" Rebecca asked, twisting my waist-length hair into a French braid. Rebecca and I had been inseparable since our freshman year of college, and she had helped me recover from the pain of losing the only man that I had ever loved. We shared everything, from a luxury apartment that was only a few miles away from the university to our deepest and darkest secrets, and my intense love of my father had been no exception. I hid nothing from her, and she repaid my honesty with compassion and understanding. "I don't think I'm ready," I said softly, chewing my freshly manicured fingernails.

"You're nervous about seeing him again, aren't you? It's understandable; you haven't even spoken to him in what—three years? I'd be nervous too. What if he's fat, or bald, or missing some of his teeth, or all three?" she laughed, tossing the finished braid over my shoulder.

"I'm glad you're enjoying my misery. At least one of us is," I said sullenly, fingering my braided hair.

"Aww, I'm sorry zeeb," she said, flinging her arms around me and giving me a tight bear hug. "Zeeb" was short for zebra, which was her nickname for me because I was of mixed race. Rebecca was Caucasian, with pale skin, short brown hair and freckles. She was intrigued by my exotic blend of African American, Native American, and French, and expressed a good-natured envy of my looks. "Oh my God, you're so pretty!" she exclaimed when she entered our dorm room on move-in day, her mother trailing close behind her.

"Are you Egyptian?" she asked, touching a lock of my hair. I rattled off my ethnicity and smiled at her wide-eyed wonder.

"So your dad is mixed and your mom was Native American? Wow, that's so cool. You're like a beautiful chameleon, or a zebra or something." I laughed uproariously at her likening me to a zebra.

"I wish I had a background like yours. Why couldn't you have had sex with an Eskimo or an Indian chief or something?" she asked, nudging her mother.

"Because your White father had green money, and plenty of it. He's also great in the sack from what I remember. He travels so much these days that he hardly has time to remind me of why I married him," her mother said, setting down Rebecca's bags and kissing Rebecca lightly on the forehead.

"Way too much information mom. Tell dad I love him whenever you manage to get him on the phone, and tell Mikey and Dave to stay the hell out of my room," she said as her mother exited. "Mikey and Dave are my little brothers. They're twins," she said, plopping down next to me on my bed.

"You're so fucking hot. If I were a lesbian I'd totally have sex with you, which is saying something because I'm picky" she said matter-of-factly, as if she had just told me the time of day or what the weather would be like. I quickly became accustomed to her brash demeanor, and relied on her quirky sense of humor to get me through my most difficult times. Years later, we enjoyed a close bond and considered ourselves to be sisters.

"Are you going to tell your dad that you graduated early?" Rebecca asked, curling her legs underneath her on the stylish sofa. I took a deep breath and began picking absently at a loose thread on my cotton pajamas.

"He already knows. I wrote him a letter a week before the ceremony."

"What did he say? Did he beg you to come back home? Is he coming to get you?"

"He never responded. Not with words anyway," I said, looking at the bouquet of long-stemmed roses that sat in a glass vase on our coffee table.

"Oh, the flowers again. He sent a whole bouquet this time. Doesn't he normally send just one?"

"Yeah. But on special occasions—like my birthday—he sends more." In the three years that I had been away, my father had never called, written, or visited. But every Sunday without fail, there would be a single red rose waiting for me on my doorstep.

The first rose arrived a month after my father had forcibly removed me from his life. Until then I had been consumed with anger and grief, because he hadn't returned any of my phone calls and had refused to entertain my suggestion of quitting school in order to be with him. I wandered aimlessly through my daily routine with him plaguing my every waking thought, wondering if I haunted his memory as much as he haunted mine. Every minute that I wasn't attending lectures or writing term papers was spent weeping into the receiver of a telephone, pleading with my father to talk to me. But no amount of 'I love you's' or 'I miss you's' could ever get him to pick up the other end. By the time Rebecca entered our dorm room holding a long-stemmed red rose, I had given up hope that my father still cared for me.

"Nila, I think this is for you. It was just sitting outside the door when I came back from that godforsaken 7am philosophy lecture," Rebecca said, placing the rose in my hand. I recognized the colorful ribbon that was tied around the rose's stem, because the same ribbon had been tied around my hair when I was a little girl. "Who's it from?" she asked, sitting cross-legged on the floor.

"My father," I said, my eyes welling with tears.

"You mean that insanely gorgeous fella over there?" she asked, pointing to a framed picture of him on my nightstand.

"That's the one," I said, my voice cracking with emotion as I fingered the ribbon's frayed edges. I placed the rose on my pillow and buried my face in my hands, unable to control the bitter sobs that escaped me.

"Oh sweetie, what's the matter? I thought you'd be happy," Rebecca said, giving up her place on the floor to sit beside me on my bed. She put her arms around me and held me while I cried, soothing me as she would a lost, lonely child.

"I love him so much, and he won't even talk to me," I sobbed, my face pressed against her small breasts. "If it weren't for him dumping cash into my bank account every week, I wouldn't know if he was dead or alive."

"Why won't he talk to you?" she asked, stroking my hair.

"I can't tell you that. It's complicated."

"Wait just a goddamned minute. I told you all about my mother's eating disorder, and about my dad giving chlamydia to Mikey and Dave's fifteen-year-old babysitter, and about losing my virginity to a mall Santa, but you can't tell me why your dad won't talk to you?"

"Fine, I'll tell you. But if you ever breathe a word of it to another soul, I'll smother you in your sleep."

"Deal. Now spill it." She sat quietly as I related the story of my forbidden love, and comforted me as I sobbed over my fear of losing it. She was surprisingly supportive, and even offered to accompany me if I ever decided to make the six-hour trip back to the place that I once called home.

That first rose had been enough to answer all of my questions, and had explained my father's feelings better than he could have himself. "I still love you...I think of you often, because I remembered that the tattered ribbon wrapped around this rose's stem was your favorite...I want you just as much now as I did then," it said. But as time wore on and my tearful pleas to come home no longer crowded his answering machine, the roses that followed began asking as many questions as they answered. "Do you still love me? Have you forgiven me for doing what's best for you? Have you met someone else?" Each week I was asked a different question by a beautiful red rose, and each week I refused to answer. I no longer initiated contact, and by the time I reached my senior year I had trouble remembering what my father's phone number was. I still knew the address to our home, however, and decided to send him a letter a week before my graduation in order to tell him of my success, and to answer some of the questions that he had been asking for three years.

Dear Daddy,

I hope this letter finds you well. You're probably wondering why it's taken me so long to contact you, even though you wouldn't have answered any of my calls if I had bothered to make them, or any of my letters if I had bothered to write them. Although I realize that this letter will go unanswered like all of my other attempts at keeping in touch, I thought you should know that I've graduated from college early, and at the top of my class. Someday I might use the degree in Political Science to apply to law school, and someday you might be proud. But for now I plan to take a year off from studying so that I can enjoy life, or what's left of it in your absence. I also wanted you to know that I've made plenty of friends and even dated someone else, just like you suggested. At first I thought that I was only doing it for you, but later realized I was doing it for myself as well. I needed to be sure that I loved you by choice and not by default. I met a handsome, intelligent young man in the school's library, and we hit it off immediately. I'm sure my attraction had nothing to do with him and everything to do with you, since he was a mulatto boy from the south with big, bright green eyes. After only six months of dating I accepted his marriage proposal, but I called off the engagement when I realized that I didn't love him. I couldn't give him my heart, because it didn't belong to me. It always has and always will belong to you, and it was in your possession before I even knew what it was to give it away. I tried to be less unhealthy, less sick, less in love with you. I tried to force myself to want what others want, to have what others have, but it's no use. I'll continue to want what I've always wanted until I'm dead. And my desire for you will die with me, but not before me.

I've attached tickets to my graduation ceremony in case you'd like to attend. There are two tickets instead of one so that if you've remarried or moved on, you can use this opportunity to throw your relationship in my face and spare me the humiliation of coming home only to discover that I'm no longer welcome.


His response to my letter hadn't been the phone call that I'd hoped for, but rather the twelve long-stemmed red roses that sat in the middle of our cherry-wood coffee table. The roses had arrived on my doorstep with an expensive bracelet binding them together at the stem, and I wore the magnificent piece of jewelry at all times. I stared vacantly at the shimmering diamonds around my wrist as Rebecca unraveled my French braid.

"You have to go home sometime sweetie. What else are you gonna do—hang around here until all of this beautiful hair of yours turns gray?" she asked, combing my bone-straight locks from root to tip with her fingernails.

"I can't bring myself to face him Rebecca. So much time has passed that...maybe I'll look at him and realize that I don't love him anymore. It's likely that things won't be the same between us."

"I'm sure that's not true. And even if it is, don't you think you owe it to him to at least say goodbye...and to hand him a naked picture of me with my phone number written on the back?" she asked coyly, the corners of her mouth upturned in a mischievous smile.

"You're supposed to be helping me, not trying to replace me," I said, slapping her leg.

"What can I say? Your dad's hot. I've been masturbating to that picture of him on your nightstand since freshman year," she said, tossing her head back and pretending to pleasure herself.

"First of all, ewww. And second, you can't have him. If he and I do decide to go our separate ways, I'll try to fix him up with a nice churchgoing girl that bakes cookies and makes her own potholders, not some scantily clad she-devil like you."

"What's wrong with me?" she asked in mock defensiveness, picking her nose.

"If my dad hooked up with you, it would take years off of his life. He'd be running around chasing a bunch of foul-mouthed, freckle-faced kids with a butterfly net while you're out on a date with the mailman."

"Hmmm, I see your point. Now stop bullshitting and go home already. I was supposed to have this place to myself about a week ago."

"Do really think I should go back?" I asked, my voice fearful.

"Of course I do. It's the only way that you'll know for sure if things have changed," she said, giving me a sympathetic hug.

"Okay, I'll head home. But if things don't work out then I'm moving right back in here with you," I said.

"Sure you will...if you can pick the new locks that I'm going to put on the door. Now get in here and help me pack," she said, running into my room and tossing my clothes onto the bed.

I could hardly keep my hands from shaking as I fished around in my purse for a fifty-dollar bill. The meter flashed a total of $15.60 for a ten-minute ride in the backseat of the cab, but my growing anxiety had made me generous. I thought I might be sick when the cab came to a stop in front of the beautifully maintained house, and I fought the urge to tell the driver to keep going when I saw my father's car parked in the driveway.

"Is everything okay pretty girl?" the driver asked, taking the fifty-dollar bill from my trembling fingertips.

"Yes...I'm fine. Thank you," I said, grasping the door handle and trying to let myself out.

"Here, let me help you," the driver said after my second attempt at exiting the cab had failed. He jogged around the cab to my passenger's side door, and took my hand as I struggled into a standing position. He closed the door and popped the trunk, unloading all of my heavy luggage. I reached for the handles of two of my suitcases, but he shooed me away.

"No worries miss, I'll take all of your bags up for you. I'd never forgive myself if I let your beautiful hands get calloused from dragging these heavy suitcases," he said, smiling shyly at me. He rolled my luggage up the stone walkway and placed it near the entrance to what I presumed was still my home. When he had taken up the last of my luggage, he jumped in his cab and waved goodbye before speeding off. The sun bore down on me as I walked up the stone path, and I was grateful for the cool breeze that pressed my white sundress up against my curves and floated wisps of my shiny golden-brown hair on its lazy current. My feet felt unsteady in the four-inch stilettos that I wore, and I prayed that I wouldn't topple and ruin the glamorous look that had taken me three hours in front of a mirror to put together. I dug my fingernails into the soft flesh of my palms and forced myself up the walkway, but stopped cold when the front door swung open as I neared the wooden steps that sat at the foot of our veranda. My heart thumped loudly in my chest as our eyes met, each of us searching the depths of the other's irises for hints, signs, and clues as to what was felt, but couldn't be said. My memory and old photographs had done him a great disservice, because he was more beautiful than either had had the ability to surmise. We stood there, his hand on the doorknob, my foot raised above the bottom step, for what seemed like an eternity. We each had a decision to make; a decision that we both knew would be irreversible, unchangeable, permanent. My decision was whether or not to climb the wooden steps, and his was whether or not to close the open door.

"You never called me. You never wrote."

"It would only have made our separation more difficult," he said, gripping the doorknob.

"You wouldn't let me come home, not even for the holidays."

"If I had, then you wouldn't have finished school. I could never force you to leave here a second time," he said, taking a step forward.
ThunderX pornBB pimp
Posted: Tue Dec 11, 2012 5:37 am Subject:
"You never came to visit."

"Are you sure of that chérie?" he asked, plucking a red rose from a nearby bush and tossing it at my feet. It was identical to the ones that had been left on my doorstep every Sunday for three years.

"It's true that I never knocked or rang the doorbell, but I was there just the same mon chou. I was there," he said solemnly, his eyes wet with tears.

I ran up the steps and threw myself into his arms, crossing the divide that had separated us for so long.

"I love you," I whispered, pressing my body close to his.

"I love you too sweetheart," he said, his hands resting on the small of my back.

I flashed him a devilish grin before sliding my hand down the front of his slacks and squeezing his hardening member. He licked his lips hungrily and swept me off my feet, carrying me into the house with my laughter trailing behind us.

We devoured each other. Our lips, tongues, and teeth sought out the other's flesh in the gathering dusk, our naked bodies melting together atop the winding staircase. I spread my legs wide on the polished wooden stairs, guttural moans scraping my throat as my father teased my pulsing clit with his tongue. He ingested what remained of my anger as it bled into the sugary juice that coursed down my swollen pussy lips, taking it into himself until there was nothing but love left to swallow. My guttural moans gave way to screams when I reached an incredible climax, quieted only by my father's passionate French kisses as he slid his tongue in and out of my mouth. "Oh Daddy, you're so good to me," I panted, wondering how I had survived without his touch.

"I haven't been good to you yet. You'll know when," he whispered, picking me up and wrapping my legs around his waist. He sat down on the stairs with me facing him in his lap, slowly pushing his hard dick inside me. When the last inch of his throbbing member had disappeared, he grabbed me firmly by the hips and began bouncing me up and down on his enormous cock. He leaned back on the stairs and bit his bottom lip as he slammed in and out of me, lifting and lowering my pussy on his dick so hard and fast that I gripped the railing for support. When he began hitting my g-spot something snapped within me, and I turned into a snarling beast. I pushed his hands away from my hips and began to ride him, fucking him just as hard as he had fucked me. He smiled at my challenge, and made quick work of putting me back in my place. He lifted me off of his lap and bent me over on the stairs, my round ass pointed towards the ceiling. He entered me roughly from behind, pumping hard and deep as I cried out for mercy. He ignored my pleas, and continued to pound me until he had delivered the most intense orgasm that I had ever experienced. I was so overwhelmed that I couldn't even cry out, my face frozen in a perpetual, soundless scream. He finally gave himself permission to cum, and he released his own anger and frustration deep into my gaping hole. I closed my eyes and smiled when I felt his thick, hot liquid shooting into me, and I turned around and took the head of his penis into my mouth in order to consume the rest of his sticky seed. I drank deeply from the tip of his throbbing dick until I had swallowed the last of his fluid.

"Am I good to you mon amour?" he asked, holding me close to him.

"So good," I whispered before closing my eyes and falling asleep in his arms.

After five months of living together in effortless bliss, I began to notice a change in my father's behavior. He became secretive and guarded, sectioning off pieces of himself that were closed to me. He spent more time in his study, whispering into the receiver of the telephone late at night when he thought I was asleep. If I happened to walk by during one of his phone calls, he would either hang up or close the open door right in my face, leaving me standing out in the dark hallway to wonder when my father had stopped loving me. I endured his aloofness for two weeks before I reached my breaking point. By that time I was convinced that there was another woman on the receiving end of his calls, one who was granted full access to the parts of my father that were beyond my reach. My father and I had already separated once, and I was determined that only death should separate us again. I dried my tears and fought for my father tooth and nail, using all of the weapons at my disposal with ruthless abandon. I cooked his meals to perfection, I cleaned the house from top to bottom, and I took care of his needs before he opened his mouth to tell me what they were. But the biggest weapon in my arsenal is the one that I used the most, making love to him until he barely had enough energy to leave our bed. I made sure that he never left the house without the scent of my sex lingering in his nostrils, so that even as he lay with another woman he would be reminded of his home. One morning I climbed on top of him and fucked him with such ferociousness that he threw up his hands in surrender after an explosive climax.

"I give up! Take everything in my wallet and all the money in the safe! Take whatever you want, just don't hurt me," he laughed, his smile stretching from ear to ear. His laughter was infectious, and I could feel my mouth form itself into a sad grin even as tears made a slow procession down my cheeks.

"Baby what's wrong?" he asked, his smile fading.

"I'm so scared...I don't want to lose you," I said, gently wiping the sweat from his brow with my fingertips.

"Nila what are you talking about? I'm not going anywhere," he said, confusion etching itself across his handsome face.

"I just...I feel like you're slipping away from me. Like maybe I'm not enough for you anymore."

"What would make you say something so ridiculous? Of course you're enough for me. You make me happy and I love you," he said, kissing the palm of my hand.

"Are you having an affair?" I asked, fresh tears stinging my eyes. He stared at me in disbelief before shouting angrily in French, pushing me off of him and exiting the bed. Although I couldn't understand the string of words that he spat in my direction as he got dressed for work, I knew that he was swearing.

"Don't leave," I whimpered, afraid that his anger would lead him to seek out his mistress for comfort.

"I have to leave. If I stay here with you I might say something that I'll regret," he said, grabbing his keys and disappearing down the hall. When I heard the front door slam shut, I ran over to the bedroom window to watch as he got into his car. Once inside, he hit the steering wheel with his fist before backing out of the driveway, leaving behind a cloud of dust in his wake.

I cleaned the house in a frenzy, as if the gleaming surfaces and shining floors would convince my father that I was still worthy of his love. I saved his study for last, giving it the most attention because it was usually the first room that he settled in after coming home from a long day at the office. I was dusting his leather-bound law books when the phone rang, it's shrill cry slicing through the air and making the hairs on the back of my stand up. My heart pounded loudly in my chest, filling my ears with its thunderous beating as I stared at the ringing telephone. Maybe it's a client, or one of his friends I thought nervously, rooted to the place where I stood by my growing anxiety. But my worst fears were brought to fruition when a woman's voice came floating out of the answering machine.

"Hi John, it's me. I was just calling to make sure that we're still on for Friday night. I know you can't stay long, but I thought maybe we could have a light dinner before going up to the hotel room. Call me back and let me know what you think," she said before hanging up. Dinner...hotel room...hotel room...HOTEL ROOM! I covered my ears in a vain attempt at silencing the screaming in my head, and shut my eyes to block out the image of my father sharing a private room with this woman. A woman who was so familiar to him that it had become unnecessary for her to leave her name and number on his answering machine. A woman whose voice he would recognize, whose phone number he would remember. I sank to the floor, collapsing under the weight of my sorrow.

When I regained my composure, I walked over to the answering machine on weak legs and forced myself to dial the woman's number. I pressed my tiny cell phone to my ear and took deep breaths, trying to steady myself so that my lie would sound convincing.

"Hello?" she said, her voice driving knives through my heart.

"Hi! My name is Sharon Stewart, and I'm calling on behalf of John Lacroix. I'm Mr. Lacroix's secretary, and he's asked me to confirm all of his appointments for this week. I see that Mr. Lacroix has you written down on his schedule for Friday, but he forgot to include the time and place. I'll need this information so that I can arrange all of his other appointments accordingly," I said, doing my best impression of my father's fifty-year-old secretary.

"Sure, no problem. He's meeting me on Friday at 7pm, at the Windsor hotel. If you can, try to schedule his last appointment as early in the day as possible so that he can make it to see me on time. I hate it when he's late," she said, her tone light and airy.

"I'll see what I can do," I said darkly before hanging up on her.

I spent Friday afternoon in a whirlwind of activity, cooking up a delectable feast that could have filled the stomach's of a dozen men, with enough time left over to make myself every bit as edible as the glazed ham that sizzled in the oven. I swept my hair up into an elegant bun, and I applied a flattering touch of makeup to my unblemished face. I stepped into a tight black dress that barely contained my heaving breasts, and slipped my small feet into a pair of sexy high-heels that my father would have referred to as "fuck me pumps". To make sure that my father returned home instead of heading straight to the hotel after work, I called him and told him that I needed to see him right away.

"Daddy we have to talk. It's important," I said, sounding frantic.

"Oh my God Nila are you alright? Are you hurt?" he asked, obviously worried.

"I'm fine Daddy, but I really need to see you."

"I have a meeting at seven sweetheart. Can't it wait?"

"No Daddy, it can't wait! You have to come home right now!" I cried, doing everything in my power to keep him from going to see her.

"Okay baby, calm down. I'm on my way," he said. I hung up the phone and smiled, feeling as though I had won a small victory in the battle for my father's heart.

When he turned his key in the lock a short while later, I was standing on the bottom step of the winding staircase with a flute of champagne in one hand and a manila envelope in the other. He stepped inside, his eyes sweeping over the romantic candles, lit fireplace, and sound system that filled the house with soft music before they finally settled on me.

"What is this?" he asked, looking pleasantly surprised.

"I thought we could have a nice romantic dinner before I tell you the good news," I said, smiling.

"Here, this is for you," I said, handing him the glass of champagne. "I made a big ham, and there's lots of vegetables and a few pies too," I said. He took a few sips of the champagne before setting it aside, more interested in me than in the meal that I had prepared. He walked over to where I stood and removed my hair from its clasp, sending it cascading down my back in a series of soft, silken waves. He tilted my head back and put his fingers in my hair, pressing his warm, wet mouth to my own until nothing existed save for the sweet agony of his touch. Without breaking our kiss, he picked me up and carried me over to the kitchen table, sending hand crafted bowls, saucers, and plates crashing to the floor as he cleared a place for me to sit. I sat perched on the edge of the large table as he spread my legs and stuck two of his fingers in between them, slowly pushing them in and out of my dripping cunt as his tongue flitted in and out of my pleading mouth. He fucked me with one finger and went after my clit with the other, applying pressure and friction until I burned as hotly as the flames that hissed and crackled in the fireplace.

"Ooooooooh," I sang, tugging on the fancy tablecloth as the rest of the empty dishes went flying off of the table's surface. I tried to run as I neared an orgasm, inching away from his feverish hands and smoldering tongue before he reduced my body to ash. He caught me and held me in place, touching his embers to my skin, melting away my flesh, bone, and blood until I was just another flame flickering in the darkness.

"I'll be back in a little while," he murmured, covering my neck in soft kisses.

"Please don't go," I said, still weak from our passion.

"When I come back you can have me all to yourself...I promise," he said, removing his fingers and bringing them up to his lips. He licked them clean, savoring the taste of me as he pulled himself away.

"If you love me you'll stay!" I cried, panic breaking the spell that he had placed me under.

"I can't miss this meeting Nila. It's important," he said, straightening out his clothes and hunting around for his keys.

"But I still haven't told you my good news!" I said, hopping down off the table and clinging to his arm.

"It'll have to wait until I come back. I'm already late," he said, glancing at his watch. He grabbed his keys and put on his coat before heading out the door, my screams drowned out by the sound of his roaring engine.

I had to see her. I needed my misery to have a face, something that I could attach to the chasm that yawned and stretched in the distance between my father and I. I jumped in my car and followed my father to the hotel where she had arranged to meet him. I parked my car on a side street as my father handed his keys and a wad of money to a valet, and I pursued him on foot when his back was turned. I stayed hidden in the shadows as he searched the lobby for her, sifting through the crowd until he spotted her at the bar. I watched him walk up behind her, and heard her squeal with delight when she turned to see that it was his hand that rested on her shoulder. She rose from her seat and hugged him, her mini skirt riding up on her thighs as they swayed in each other's arms. They exchanged pleasant words and easy smiles before she took him by the hand and led him to the bank of elevators that traveled between the first and twenty-fifth floors. She was a buxom blonde, pretty enough to grace the cover of a magazine, pretty enough to be seen on my father's arm. I stood inside the lobby long after they had disappeared, praying silently for him to realize that the woman that he held by the waist wasn't me, for him to reemerge from the bank of elevators alone, my scent still the only one to linger on his skin. After twenty minutes of prayer, I accepted my defeat and went home to gather my things, ready to leave him once and for all.

When my father returned a few hours later the house was pitch black, with nothing more than the eerie quiet to greet him. He switched on the lights and called out my name, searching for me in every room in the house. When he came back downstairs he made a beeline for his study, the only room that he hadn't yet visited. He walked over to his desk and turned on the small lamp that sat next to his phone, illuminating the manila envelope that I had held earlier. A small slip of paper that bore my handwriting sat on top of it, the last communication from me that my father would ever receive.

Dear John,

I followed you to the hotel. I saw the two of you together. I begged you not to go, but you ignored my love, my grief, my pain in order to be with her. You've made your decision, and I've made mine. I'm leaving you. I hope she's able to succeed where I've failed.

P.S. It was a boy.

My last line prompted my father to tear open the manila envelope, where he got his first and last glimpse of the son that I had tried to tell him about before he left for the hotel. He laid his head on his desk and cried, still gripping the grainy sonogram in his hand.

"Nila, baby please come home. I know what you saw, but it's not what you think," he sobbed, recording his message on the cell phone that I hadn't answered after a dozen rings. Unbeknownst to him, the small phone that was normally glued to my ear was lodged in the space behind our bed, switched permanently to the "silent" position.

"The woman that you saw me with is a jeweler. She sold me the diamond bracelet that I left on your doorstep when you graduated from college, and when we met at the hotel she sold me the engagement ring that I was going to propose to you with. She sells her most expensive jewelry out of a hotel room rather than in her shop, so that she won't have to split the commission with her business partner," he sighed, touching a hand to the velvet box that contained the beautiful engagement ring.

"I pulled some strings and had a good friend of mine doctor your birth certificate, and everything else that identified me as your father. I spent weeks ordering the false documents and planning our trip to Hawaii, where I wanted us to get married. That's why I tried my best not to let you overhear me when I was on the phone. I wanted it all to be a surprise. But now I just want you to come home. I love you so much," he whispered, placing the receiver back in its cradle and wondering where I could possibly be at four o'clock in the morning.

The mystery of where I had gone was solved when he opened the garage door, revealing my lifeless body as it swung from a sturdy fixture in the ceiling.

I have always loved my father. And in death I love him still.
xavierw pornBB noob
Posted: Sat Mar 18, 2017 8:33 am Subject:

This is an extremely well-written piece and I appreciate the warning you gave before the actual story began. I'm not a "And they lived happily ever after" kind of guy so I appreciate all the time and effort you put into writing this excellent story.

Don't do it again.

I couldn't find it in me to ask you for your next piece for fear of getting something else like this one.

Feel free to retire now. Wink

WE can do it your way or we can do it my way. I'll choose. B-)
Obsesseddd pornBB noob
Posted: Sat Mar 18, 2017 11:39 am Subject:
That was amazing indeed