Living With My Father [anal][incest][abuse][non-con]

I wasn’t always a good girl that sat at home all day messing around on the computer. I had a rebellious phase, as teenage girls tend to get around the time they hit eighteen and think they’re grown.

By that time I had been removed from high school twice. The first time wasn’t my fault: I was being bullied – rumors being spread about me that everyone, even my parents thought were true – and things got out of hand. The fallout from my parents having to pull me out of school the first time caused them to get a divorce. That wasn’t my fault, as their marriage had been strained for a long time at that point. Still, it was difficult not to realize that I was the straw that broke the camel’s back.

The second time, I was expelled – and I certainly had deserved to be – I went a little wild. Maybe I was acting out. I had been living with my mom after she split from dad and she didn’t have what it took to discipline me. She was the type of woman who could never stand up for herself. I’m like her in a lot of ways.

I was drinking and smoking a lot. I spent most of that year skipping class and getting either high or drunk with friends. Within a few months, the rumors from my old school followed me.

It’s a strange feeling when you know something isn’t true but you believe it anyway. Especially when it’s something about yourself. Maybe I was just tired of trying to defend myself, or I was bitter. I don’t know. If everyone thought I was a brainless slut who would let anyone use her, I might as well just give in and be that girl. It made a lot more sense at the time, somehow.

The disappearing started then. My mom wouldn’t see me for days at a time while I hung out and got blackout drunk with college boys or older men. She couldn’t stop me. Legally, I was an adult. What could she do? Eventually, after missing months of class, I was expelled. At her wit’s end, my mother decided that I couldn’t live with her anymore and that I would have to go stay with my father instead.

My father was a different animal entirely.

He and my mother had gotten together when they were in high school. She was pregnant when they graduated and, to his credit, he stayed with her and provided the best life he could afford. That wasn’t to say he was happy about it.

He was a bitter man. Deep down, I think he resented both my mother and I. I had always hated the way he looked at me. He made me uncomfortable, which is why I wasn’t so torn up about the divorce in the first place. Moving back with him was just another shitty episode to me so, at the time, I didn’t care.

He lived in a small apartment in a bad part of town. My father was a detective and made decent money, but his drinking habit consumed most of his salary every month so the one bedroom was the best he could afford. By all accounts, and pictures I had seen, he was very handsome in his youth. Now, approaching forty, the late nights and constant drinking had taken their toll. He was still a large, imposing man but now wrinkles, dark rings under his eyes, a perpetual stubble on his chin along with an alcohol-induced pot belly were his most distinguished features.

We didn’t talk much once I arrived. I carried only a small backpack of belongings and that was all I had to my name. He told me with a grunt that I’d be sleeping on the couch and there was stale pizza in the fridge, then he left. I sat there for a long time and didn’t even cry. There was nothing to cry about. When my father returned, he was drunk and I pretended to be asleep while he stumbled to bed noisily.

I woke the next morning to him yelling at me. He was angry that I had drank one of his beers and refused to listen, even as I told him that there was nothing else to drink in the house. The water from the tap smelled funny and I had no money.

That was the first time a man ever hit me. I can still hear the ringing between my ears, even now. He screamed at me. He told me that if I had a problem then I should “fix it”. I didn’t know what he meant. I sat there on my knees and held onto my reddened face while he raged at me.

That was the beginning of my life with him. He made no attempt to enroll me in school and I didn’t have the enthusiasm to do it myself. Every day he would go to work and was gone without contact until he returned twelve or sometimes fourteen hours later. I would sit there with the roaches and rats while I watched one of the two stations that his 30-year-old tv could pick up. I couldn’t tell you how many days I spent sat on that couch that smelled of stale vomit and piss while I survived off the leftovers from his takeout.

It took three weeks – or maybe it was three months – before I decided to do something. At first it was boredom but I cleaned the living room. It was an oddly satisfying feeling to finally accomplish something. I sat there, proud of myself while I waited for my father to come home and notice. He did come home eventually, drunk as ever, but paid no mind to my efforts. It stung, sure, but it wasn’t the end of the world.

Over the next few days, I cleaned the rest of the apartment. It wasn’t a monumental task, now that I look back at how small a place it was, but at the time it was the first thing I had ever been proud of.

There was nothing I could have done about the smell. No matter how much I kept the windows open to air the place out, it wouldn’t leave. But there was no trash, no containers with rotting food, no beer cans or whiskey bottles laid about, nor had I seen a rat or cockroach. Unless I really looked for one, that is. Still, that day I was satisfied. For the first time in a long time I felt good about myself. I just wanted him to feel good about me, too.

That night, my father came home in a bad mood. He never told me about his work though I knew it wasn’t easy. Deep down, I think he was proud of what he did, he had to have wanted to be a police officer at one point. There was just something…broken about him. He drank to cover that up.

Tonight he was pissed off. I know he wasn’t angry with me but I was there and he was angry. He didn’t need another reason to justify it when he hit me. In that moment, I understood why my mother never stood up to him; why she never got a job or tried to better her life or mine when she was around him. She kept herself a pitiful, downtrodden, worthless woman because she couldn’t bear the face that, no matter what she did, my father could never see the good in her. It was just easier not to build herself up because the only thing he enjoyed was breaking her down, as he would do to me.

My first mistake was asking, “Why?”

That’s all I said. I meant ‘Why did you hit me? I did good’, or ‘Why don’t you love me?’, or ‘Why can’t you be proud of me?’

What came out was just that one word: Why?

It was enough. He hit me again. He screamed something I couldn’t hear. My vision was blurry but I remember how his spit frothed at the corners of his mouth. I remembered the same scenario that I saw play out countless times as a child playing out again, this time with myself in my mother’s place.

I tried to apologize for talking back to him but he hit me again. When I tried to protect myself, he hit me harder. Finally, terrified, I curled into a ball at his feet and attempted to protect my stomach. He grabbed me by the hair and lifted me to my knees before he dragged me across the dirty carpet. It was only when we crossed the threshold to his bedroom that I realized what was about to happen.

I could say that I tried to fight him off. I tried to tell him ‘no’, for what that was worth. I tried digging my heels in and I clawed at his wrist until he bled. I can’t explain exactly what it feels like to be manhandled that way, by someone who is so physically superior than yourself. I could have fought for my life but as far as I was concerned, his muscles were iron. I suppose, thinking back, that I could have fought harder. I probably should have done something, anything, but cry and beg for mercy.

I had never been in his bedroom before. There was nothing in there but a wardrobe and a small bed covered in dirty sheets. The mattress was thin and smelled equal parts of mold and piss. His sheets smelled of months-old sweat and grime. He said nothing as he forced me over it but I remember how I cried in pain as he cuffed my hands behind my back. I remember feeling my shorts and panties being yanked off my backside and bunched around my thighs. I remember listening as he unbuckled and unfastened his pants.

I remember that right before he sodomized me, I said, “Daddy, please don’t do this to me.”

It wasn’t the first time I had anal sex and, like the first time, it hurt like hell. I screamed into the mattress until I was hoarse. I screamed until no sound escaped my throat and then I screamed some more. I felt his hands on me. His touch made my skin crawl and was somehow worse than the tearing at my backside. He grabbed my hair and forced my face into the sheets while he fucked me. His grunting, his smell, the feeling of his weight as he slammed his hips against my ass again, and again, and again…I can remember it all.

His cock wasn’t long but, God, it was thick. It spread me apart and I felt my walls tremble as I tried my best not to clench on him. He buried his cock in me repeatedly and the friction around my asshole stung. He held me, one hand at my shoulder, as he attempted to get balls deep in my ass. Like my mother, I had quite a bit of backside. I think he enjoyed the way he could slam into us. How our skin would ripple and flush pink when he abused it. He liked how we yelped and cried and how we had no recourse but to lay there and submit to his perverted abuse. I know he liked it because it didn’t take him long to cum.

I felt relief, strangely enough, when I felt his load as it spurted inside me. I thought that the ordeal would be over but he didn’t stop thrusting. The sound of wet squelching that came from my ass as he grinded his seed into me made me start crying again; the sound of me crying only re-invigorated his lust. I lost track of how long he had sex with me but, by the time we were done, my knees were rubbed raw from being knelt on the carpet. I had long stopped crying; I had run out of tears. My father collapsed on the bed beside me. His chest heaved as he tried to catch his breath but he said nothing.

Soon after he calmed himself, he got off the bed. He took position behind me once again and I thought he was going to continue using my ass but he simply pulled my panties up before he uncuffed me. He left me there as though it was the most normal thing in the world and there was a surrealness to it all. It was as though I wasn’t in my own body as I pulled my shorts up and made my way to the couch again. I was bleeding but I didn’t care. I had just been taught a lesson about what happened when I cared.

Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/c4g4y3/living_with_my_father_analincestabusenoncon