[M/F] [inc] [mast] “if only he hadn’t been my dad”

They say creative writing is a great way to work through grief and regret. I feel both. Grief. And regret. I lost my father six months ago. He was still young, or at least young enough that it didn’t have to end this way. But the disease just would not listen. Statistics, common sense, averages, none of it mattered in the end. He was gone in the blink of an eye. It took a year from diagnosis to end. Not all days were bad.

At the time, I was an aspiring model, working with an agency, featured in local shows and ads. After he died, real life called. I ended up working at Starbucks. I don’t hate it. Not all days are bad.

That’s the grief part. I attend a support group in town once a week. Last month, the topic of regret came up. Things we wish we had done differently. Things left unsaid. Unexplored. My dad and I had one. A very very unusual one. For, you see, my dad was into me. He was attracted to me. To put it bluntly, he wanted to fuck me. I know because once the disease got him, he lost enough of his inhibitions to tell me. Or at least to hint at it.
I was showing him pictures from my latest show, and he whispered “if only you weren’t my daughter”
I chuckled awkwardly, swiped away from the photos on my phone, and asked him if he needed anything else before I went home.

And now, now that he is gone, I regret it. I regret not hearing him out. You see, I was not offended by his remark. I didn’t feel abused, coerced, none of that. Once you move past the initial gut reaction, I was actually flattered, maybe even a bit intrigued. Was I truly that beautiful to elicit that kind of reaction? And.. let’s be honest. I let plenty of horrible guys have their way with me because of their smooth smooth words. My dad hadn’t exactly been smooth, but I also knew he was not horrible and mean. I knew he loved me. And yet I shrugged him off, I didn’t even give him the benefit of treating him like a man. And I regretted it.

As I explained my story to the support group, I feared to be shunned, to be insulted, I feared their shame. Instead, I received an outpour of support. “Creative writing is a great way to work through grief and regret. Why don’t you write what you wish had happened that night? If you feel comfortable, you can share it with us next week. If you don’t, put the papers in a drawer and forget them. But at least you’ll have a place to explore the road not traveled”

I let them talk me into it. And I wrote it. I wrote the story of what I wish I had done when my father confessed his lust, or at least the closest he ever got to confessing. And this is that story.

“If only you weren’t my daughter” he said as I swiped from one picture to the next. He had good taste, the rascal, that’s for damn sure. I was wearing a write dress that left very little to the imagination. I hadn’t even realized that you could see so much of me from just that one photo, or I would have hidden it. But now.. here we were.

I chuckled. And this is where real life disappears, and vanishes into imagination, truth becomes fantasy. I chuckled. “Would you buy me dinner if I wasn’t?”
“Dinner and drinks” he said
“I’m a tequila gal, just so you know”
“I prefer bourbon myself, just so you know”

He was already sick. Had been for a few months. The good days were becoming rare. The bad days common. This was one of the good days. “Wait here” I said, and I walked to the liquor cabinet. There was no tequila, but plenty of bourbon. I poured two glasses and walked back to him. When he saw me bring the cups he sat up on the bed, and his whole face lit up. “No tequila, sorry”.
“This will do dad. Or should I call you Jack, since, you know, I am not your daughter?”
“I like Jack. And your name is…?” he asked
“I am Jessica, but I just go by J. You can call me J”

I will admit it, my dad was a bit rough, but behind the sickness and the lack of practice anytime this century, you could spot hints of a smooth talker. He could flirt, good ol’ Jack. In a different world, at a real bar, who knows, with the right tequila, I might have been into him. We had fun. Even if the bar was a bedroom, even if the tequila tasted like bourbon, and even if gool ol’ rusty Jack was my dad.

Even then, I thought we’d chit chat a bit, goof around, and it would be the end of it all. Even in my imaginary world, I didn’t think it would go anywhere beyond flirting. But I kept writing. And I kept writing. I wrote entire pages of our conversation. I filled in the blanks with my imagination. Was my dad really that much of a flirt? I will never know. But the imaginary dad of that night, he was. Enough of a flirt to talk me into a second date.

I shared the first part with the support group, and once again, they encouraged me to write the second date. “Go meet him again” they told me. I was a bit reluctant. I felt like if I wrote more, things would get physical. Was I ready to explore those feelings? Was I ready to get physical with my dad, albeit just on paper? As I sat at my desk, I didn’t know yet.

But I returned to the his bedroom. A week later. Another one of the good nights. The TV still on. We had convinced mom to go stay at aunt Linda’s for the night. “You need a break mom. I will stay with dad tonight. It’s all good”

I walked into his room wearing shorts and a t-shirt. No bra. No panties. I didn’t know if anything would happen. But if it did, I was ready. This time, I brought my own tequila from home. We sat on the couch, he with his bourbon, me with my tequila and we talked. We chatted about the week, about my job, about his days at home, all so identical. He told me he was sick, he told me he had a family, and that he was trying to fight for them. He told me he wasn’t sure how much longer he had. I told him I couldn’t understand his pain, his fear. He told me he felt so close to me. Closer than he ever felt to anyone else in the world. “I barely know you, J, and yet.. and yet I feel so close to you. I feel like I have known you forever”

We kissed. It happened. Just like it would have in real life. A man and a woman at a bar. A father and a daughter at home, in front of the couch. We kissed. As I put my pen down, I felt a gush of warmth wash over me. I felt it over my chest, in my thighs. There is this one tiny little spot, it’s where I always feel it. It’s where I feel warm and fuzzy right before I get all kinds of horny. I felt it. I felt it in real life. My character felt it too.

“Dad” I said. “Jack was fun. But I don’t know Jack. And you don’t know J. But I know my dad. And you know me. And I want you to feel good tonight, dad”
As I said that, I took my shirt off, and I guided his hand towards my tits. I told him he could touch them however he liked. I told him they were his tits tonight.

I unzipped his pants, took them off him, and guided his cock out of his underwear.
He tried to stop me, but I shushed him. “I want you to feel good tonight, dad” I said once more

He nodded at me. I nodded at him. My hand wrapped his shaft. I started stroking it. Slowly. Gently. His fingers were playing with my nipples. I felt them get hard. I looked. I realized I wasn’t wearing my shirt anymore. I realized I was fondling my own nipples. I realized they were hard. I was pleasuring myself, as I wrote of my dad and his hand on my chest.

I left him get hard as I stroked. I looked at him. His eyes were closed. He was smiling. His hand was cupping my tit. It was such a perfect fit. More than a handful is a waste, and I was the perfect handful for him. Was that true. Would my tit have fit so perfectly in my father’s hand? I will never know. But in my imagination, it did.

In my imagination, his cock was hard, veiny, and throbbing as I masturbated him. In my imagination, I could feel his hips gently thrust as I jerked him off. His eyes shut closed. His lips slightly parted, letting out soft sighs. And, in real life, my hand in my shorts. I’d write a paragraph, and take a break to fuck myself. I’d write a paragraph and fuck myself. And the closer I got to climax, the closer he got to climax. For this one beautiful moment, my dad was alive, and we were connected, synced, so closely that we would cum together.

He begged me to make him cum. I didn’t need encouragement. He begged me to kiss him. I didn’t need encouragement. I kissed him. Again. And again. and again. And I jerked him off just like he wanted it. It felt like being lovers of a decade, knowing each other so well, knowing exactly which buttons to push, how to make each other feel good. And then, I wrote it. I wrote that sentence. “And with a moan, he came. Thick spurt after thick spurt of cum came out of him, landed on my hand, on my arm.” and as I finished writing, I also came. “Dad” I moaned as my own pleasure gushed out of me. I squirted. I fucked myself to a squirting orgasm, as I wrote of jerking off my own father.

That night we parted ways with one last kiss. He went to sleep on his bed. I stayed on the couch, once again his daughter, taking care of him through the night.

I thought about writing again. But I am scared of it too. I know what would happen if I met him again. And I am scared. I am scared to discover that I wanted to have sex with my dad. I am scared to discover that “if only he hadn’t been my dad”…

*For this story I wish to thank u/istayyawayyyX. She has been a delightful inspiration and encouragement. Everything beautiful and sexy in these words is thanks to her. Everything less so, solely my fault*

*Crossposted from /r/EroticWriting*

Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/qu5znt/mf_inc_mast_if_only_he_hadnt_been_my_dad