It was sudden when he hugged me. I was surprised, but I relished in his warmth. On cold nights when we were out and the winds decided to be cruel, my father would envelop me in his arms. He never failed to comfort my freezing skin. Thank you for reading my article! You have contributed to my success as a writer. The articles you choose to read on Hivisasa help shape the content we offer.

I was eager to replicate both the good and the bad feelings that had come from the abuse, without even realizing it. It would take me a long time and a lot of unraveling the lessons of my childhood to see sex as something I could enjoy, choose, participate in joyfully. To want it, not need it. To learn that sex didn't have to feel bad to be good. Even now I am careful to think through my sexual motives and actions to make sure that what I'm trying to "get" from sex isn't shame, isn't obsession. Though the abuse itself ended long ago, the impact is everlasting. His sex pressed against mine, wet and urging, begging for entrance. We were both completely naked, on the bed he once shared with his first love. On the bed he now shared with his first – his only – daughter. I didn’t wonder where we were going. I didn’t ask this time, because I knew. It was always the same place: “Asias.” My mother told me, though I didn’t need to know. “Asias Hotel – same place as always, dear.” It was a habit I kept for a long time after those days -- I'd make myself come but not in the presence of others. It was like a vestige of Daddy; for a long, long time, only Daddy would make me come. Chris gave me a lot: He replaced my father as the man who kept me front and center in his gaze, something I so desperately needed. But here's the catch, something I didn't think about until recently. How did the girls know? How had this rumor managed to get passed down? Who else played with Mr. Bernard? But this was no punishment. This was a cessation. This was my death. I tried to make him see reason, to convince him that we were to be forever. I told him of our joys, our laughs and how love couldn’t be any better. I begged him not to kill his beloved and only child.Scarlet red bobbing up and down through the trees attached to a figure concealed in the darkness. My horror intensified when I saw that this figure was not alone. It was being trailed by another pair of blood red eyes emitting a sinister light that latched onto something inside leaving me powerless to react. The eyes were other worldly, and combined with the incessant whispering, had me wholly hypnotized, mesmerized, and frozen in place as the lights marched ever closer to the tent. Then a third pair of eyes materialized followed by a fourth pursuing a clear cut path toward where I was standing. What I felt next snapped me out of it. I screamed at the top of my lungs as the hands grabbed me by the shoulders. Eventually my parents separated, meaning I spent two nights a week at my father's house. Those nights, I stayed in his bed with him, all night long. Somehow, the lie he'd told my mother to explain why I was often in their bed when she came home from work -- that I was too scared to sleep alone -- became truth. I don't know if I was truly scared or if I simply came to believe I was, but I rarely spent a night in bed by myself until I was 13 years old. As soon as he finished the sentence, two red lights appeared in the darkness of the trees. The other campers and I shrieked as the light moved slowly but surely toward the fire. I grabbed my father in panic. A feeble scream escaped my lips. Her last words to me, “I don’t want you to see me do it.” And mine to her, nothing. A kiss, I figured – a fragile kiss said more. Short Story Writing | Writers | Read Online | Writing Contests | Writing Software | Writing Journals | Writing A Book | Writing A Novel

I tried to comfort him. I pulled myself next to him, lay my head on his shoulder, and curled my arm across his stomach, the way my mother used to hug him. His belly was soft and fleshy. He had just eaten but it felt like his stomach was empty. During my adolescence and all through my 20s I accommodated men sexually as a way of getting attention, as a way to feed my emotional needs: "He loves to have sex with me, that must mean I'm special." It was all-important to me that I be the object of someone's, often several someones', sexual attention. It made me feel whole, complete, energized.It was cold at the funeral. The leaves dropped like dead flies. A few landed on her coffin. It suddenly looked like Halloween: orange leaves laid against a dark wooden box. My father stood silent beside me. His eyes were red-rimmed, yet I had never seen him cry. He had been in this state of almost-crying for a week now. Good for him; I hadn’t shed a tear, and my eyes were nowhere near red. No, not even pink. The wind blew through the flap of the tent. Carried on the wind was a voice. At first, I told myself I was mistaken. However, the whispering continued. It was barely audible but there was no denying its existence. Though I could not understand what was being said, the voice was calling to me. Before I knew what I was doing, I opened the flap with hands that no longer belonged to me and stood in front of the tent staring out into the darkness of the woods. That is when a pair of red lights appeared. This work is currently completed, but I may continue it in the future. Language: English Words: 2,857 Chapters: 5/5 Comments: 45 Kudos: 2,430 Bookmarks: 196 Hits: 239,060 I could hardly wait for him to reach into my panties and give me that tingling feeling. I didn't know then that I was having orgasms; it would be years before I learned that word, and even longer before I admitted to myself that what I experienced was orgasm. But sometimes the incest felt good -- that special feeling, all that attention and love and affection from my nice daddy. And he was, in my young mind, my nice daddy; he hugged me and put Band-Aids on my skinned knees and sang Sinatra songs to me. Why not just tell them you love their stubbornness, or their hot-headedness while their alive? So they actually know that you love them for who they are. Why is that? Is it just politeness? You don’t want to speak ill of the dead because they might haunt you? Because they’re dead? Is that it?”

My whole life, I have been haunted by an intersection between shame and pleasure. As a young child, I was hurt again and again and led to believe that it was my fault, and that if only I weren't bad, my dad wouldn't do those things to me. But at the same time, I thought I was special because it was happening. I'd tell myself, "Look how much my daddy loves me," but still I knew it was bad and that I should be ashamed. And sometimes I liked the way it felt, but a lot of times I was scared. And I knew that if I told anyone, he would hurt me. A ringing started in my ears, punctured by the sharp sound the forks and spoons made on our plates. Each sound seemed magnified. My ears felt like they were being continuously stabbed. Now, it was OK when she was 6 or 7 but now I think she is getting too old for that. She looks older than 9 and already is very interested in all that teenage phase stuff, dressing up, make up. I find it just not appropriate to share a bed with a grown up man, even her own dad, when she starts changing into a teenager. I didn’t feel guilty. Death didn’t scare me; talking about it didn’t bother me. Death wasn’t sad, it was just natural. I was young when I knew that I would never cry at anyone’s funeral. Not a friend’s, not a grandparent’s. Not even my mother’s. And I was right. orphan_account Fandoms: Father/Daughter - Fandom, Incest - Fandom, Hardcore - Fandom, daddy - FandomMy mother’s arms were sprawled on the bed as if broken. Her head was tilted to one side. Her eyes were shut. She was dying. She looked like she had just fallen asleep. I lived a sheltered life as a child. I attended Christian school and went to church three days a week, sometimes even more. My father was a pastor, and when I developed an interest in doing outdoorsy type stuff, I asked if I could join the Boy Scouts. My dad in turn suggested I join the Cadets. This is an organization that is like the Boy Scouts but with a more explicitly Christian bend to it. I agreed, and he registered me the next day. My mother lay underneath me. I was suffocating her, my elbow crammed under her chin. When I stood, I was standing on the street: the bus was on its side, all its windows broken. Glass was wedged in my palm, my hair, my burning cheeks. My arms were moving. They wrapped themselves across my chest. I felt my cold hands digging into my shoulders. I had no control over my limbs. It felt like my body knew I needed comfort, and was compensating for its absence. You are… so stubborn. So insensitive.” From my father, it came out an angry shout. “I ask you this one thing –”

Kim SH, Baek M, Park S. Association of parent-child experiences with insecure attachment in adulthood: a systematic review and meta-analysis. J Fam Theory Rev. 2021;13(1):58-76. doi:10.1111/jftr.12402 I was twelve that first time, and a happy child, happier than any other child I knew. I doubt if any other child had so much love. I was my father’s lover and he was mine. Everything was perfect. Other times, the routine was different. He would work up to things slowly. We'd be wrestling, rough-housing playfully, maybe in the living room, and he would casually, repeatedly touch my vagina through my clothes. Later in bed he would hold me close and we'd laugh. He'd ask, "Who's my No. 1 girl?" And he would touch me under my nightgown, and I would like it.All my preparations and quivering anticipation was to have ended in bliss, the kind only my father could give me… I was my father’s lover and he was mine. Everything was perfect. This many years have passed, since I lost my beloved father. And more recently the world lost him too. I just left his grave side. I have never been able to understand why I keep visiting his grave, despite the distance, despite all. And each time, I always leave with an exhausting longing, a fiery desire, and an intense craving. He only said he was doing it for me, that it was for the best, my best. How could I have ever believed the man loved me? He even looked sad that day, so sorrowful and tired. In better times and in our previous world, I would have taken him in my arms as I was wont, and work my magic on him. Over the years I had learnt his special recipe. I was the only one who knew his mix. I had never asked him, but I sensed that even my mother didn’t take him to the heights I took him. I had no warning, no premonition. The break up was like death. I had taken the week off from school just to be with the only man in my life, the best man I ever knew, or so I thought. I thought my birthday would have ended sensually, like all the others. It was usually the best birthday present he gives me, a passionate night of love making right out of a romance novel.