I had no idea, then, that I would be the woman to give him the cunt he needed.
Or that he would be the man who would give me the only thing I really missed since leaving schooclass="underline" the thrill of hot necking, the tingling sensation I had always felt when I had allowed some eager boy to paw my tits, my cunt, the even greater pleasure of occasionally going all the way for the unsurpassed joy of a good fuck.
There were times I missed that so much I couldn't stand it; times when I would start thinking about the boys who never came around any more and I would get so horny my legs would actually start to tremble. I'd think about the few who had actually got it in my cunt, and I'd wonder which of the girls they were balling now. I'd sometimes try to picture them fucking the different girls I knew. That only made it worse.
Thinking about it at night was worst of all. In the darkness of my room, with no sounds to disturb my thoughts, the vision would become so real that I would actually feel the touch of fingers on my nipples, causing them to swell, and I would feel hot breath in my ears, on my neck. And I would solve that problem the only way I knew.
Always with a feeling of shame, and a promise that this time would be the last, absolutely the last I would throw aside the blankets, spread my thighs, and go to work on my own cunt. My mind would fill with fantasy. The fingers that tugged at my nipples were not my own; they were the fingers of a male, any male. And the pressure against the mound of my cunt was the pressure of a hard groin, steadily driving cock deep inside me. I would hold onto these fantasies until, at last, moaning, writhing with the desperate need for a good fuck, I would come. Then I would hate myself for breaking my promise.
It was on a bad night such as that — a night that followed a day when my thoughts had continually returned to visions of myself spread beneath some eager young stud, his prick driving away my needs — that I was first fucked by my father. Nights were better after that.
I was in my bedroom undressing in front of the mirror when I first heard Daddy call out in his sleep. His bedroom was next to mine, and I listened for his voice again. Nothing, so I looked back into the mirror.
"You do without tonight, you old whore," I said, half-joking with my reflection in the mirror. I was wearing only my panties and my bra, and my reflection smiled back in a way that said she was going to get hers, whether I liked it or not. I suddenly realized that, without thinking about it, I had slipped my hands beneath my tits, squeezing them through the cups of my bra. "Damn you!" I said to my reflection. It was a ritual I often followed; my reflection always won.
They were nice tits, though, I told myself as I fingered them through the bra. Heavy and full, like my mother's had been. My hips go with them. But there the resemblance ends. My hair is darker than her blonde hair had been, and as I stood before the mirror, I could see that the dark patch around my cunt showed clearly through my panties; a few stray tendrils curled from beneath the elastic at my thighs. I slipped one hand beneath the waistband, moving toward my pussy.
"You win again, you bitch," I said, my voice trembling as my fingers touched the crisp hair of my cunt. In a moment, I would turn out the lights, then finger-fuck myself until I was able to sleep.
Then I heard Daddy's voice again. It was louder this time, almost a cry, and it was full of pain. Thinking he was sick or hurt, I ran to his room. Not until I was beside his bed did I realize that he was repeating the word "Dolly" over and over again.
In the light that streamed through the open door, I could see he was crying in his sleep. The tears streamed down his face. He wore only his shorts; his bare chest heaved with his crying. At the center of his shorts, I could see... I remember scolding myself for daring to think about that. "I need you, Dolly!" he cried suddenly, and I knelt quickly beside him.
"I'm here, Daddy. I'm here," I whispered, touching my fingers gently to his forehead. His face was hot. His arm suddenly whipped around my shoulder, pulling me to him, and I knew he was dreaming he was holding my mother. My tits were pressed tight against his chest, his hand was moving on my bare back. "It's all right, Daddy," I said in that same low whisper, and then his eyes suddenly blinked open.
"For just a moment there... I thought," he said, stumbling over the words. He didn't finish the sentence. His arm left my shoulder, his hand brushing across my ass, accidentally, I suppose, as it dropped away from me, and then he began to weep, openly, unashamedly. I moved onto the bed, sitting close to his naked leg, and I held his face against my breasts. I could feel his tears on the bare flesh above my bra.
"I know what you thought, Daddy," I told him. I stroked the back of his head with my fingers. "You thought it was Mommy. Oh God, Daddy, I wish there was something I could do." I was crying inside too.
He lifted his face from my breasts. "You're done more than any girl could do, Brenda," he said. "I should be grateful. It's just that the nights get so..." His voice trailed away.
"So lonesome?" I said, finishing his sentence for him. I recall thinking that I was lonesome too but in a different sort of way. I hugged him tightly, then said, "What you need is a good cry, and a good shoulder to have it on. And I'm going to see you have both. I'm going to spend the night right here." Before he could say anything to that, I stood and walked to the door. It was then, as I stood there in the light from the hallway, dressed only in my bra and panties, ready to push the door closed, that he spoke the words which, I think, changed everything.
"You shouldn't be sleeping with me, you know?" he said in a voice that was suddenly changed. "You're a woman now, all woman. You..."
I closed the door. "Don't be silly. I'm your daughter, aren't I?" I said, crossing the room and slipping into bed beside him. But his words had made me all too aware of the fact that I was a woman; they had reminded me of my near-nakedness, of the horniness I thought I had left in my own room. They had driven home the fact that he was a very desirable man, though he was my own father.
I was suddenly aware of the coarse hair of his legs against the smooth flesh of my own, aware of the hard muscles of his body so close to me, and I remembered, suddenly and vividly, the way I had noticed the swell of his prick against his shorts as I had entered the room. I tried to stop myself, I swear I did, but I felt my cunt getting hot, the blood rushing to the tips of my tits. He must have known all this.
"I think you'd better kiss me goodnight, then go to your own room," he said, his voice thick. I nodded my head in the darkness, then moved to do as he said. Our lips touched lightly.
And, all of a sudden, the two of us found there was no turning back.
Looking back, I honestly don't know when the kiss changed. Or who changed it, if you're looking for someone to blame. One moment, I was half out of bed, touching my lips to his in a daughterly kiss fully intending to leave, and the next moment was something entirely different.
"My mouth was open and so was his, our tongues touching wildly, and I had dropped my full weight down on him?" As he felt my bra-covered tits against his chest, his arm went around my back, squeezing the breath from me. I felt his dick go hard beneath my belly.
Slipping my hands beneath his head and holding him so our mouths were locked together, I slithered downward on the bed. I stopped with my legs spread wide, straddling him so that his rigid prick was beneath my crotch. Only a little cloth separated us. I ground my cunt against him, pressing down with all my strength.