[MF] [Incest] I don’t know how to love you.

My mother was 21 and fresh out of college when she married the 35-year-old untenured Instructor she had secretly dated her senior year. I was born 7 months later, which explains why they were in such a hurry.

One day when I was 14 I came home from school 90 minutes earlier than scheduled. I thought the house was empty – Mom and Dad ought to have both been at their jobs. I was surprised to find my 50-year-old father and his 19-year-old girlfriend in the house. Shouting and threats ensued. I told Mom a few days later and they were divorced before my 15th birthday. I lived apart from him for years; Mom had custody.

The next months were difficult, but once the divorce was settled and court orders were complied with life settled down. I had such negative feelings towards my father that I was happy he was gone. I hated him for destroying our family (while he seethed at me for being the agent of his downfall). I declined the available parental visits to or with my dad, much to his relief.

I didn’t mind when Mom started dating. She was, like me, a victim of my father’s predations, entitled to her new life. Ten years later and she is still dating. None of her relationships last very long. There was a pattern: meet a man, convince herself he was a keeper, let him sleep over on the second or third date, and then lament his departure from her life a week later. My mother wasn’t a slut, but she had an endless series of very brief sexual encounters.

None of this was good for me. My father’s serial cradle robbing and my mother’s revolving bedroom door left me, as an adult, badly prepared for healthy relationships with my male peers. In high school Mom kept a careful eye on me, but now I was ready for college. Where the father I resented was finally a full-professor.

Why there? Money. Faculty children pay next to nothing for tuition. And our proximity was a non-issue since neither one of us wanted to spend time with the other. Our paths sometimes crossed, and we were always polite to each other, especially in public, on campus. The college itself sometimes threw us together. All the faculty and staff knew I was the Professor’s daughter, and none of them knew that we’d rather not socialize. My father and I often had to pretend to be friendly to each other.

A ceremony at the Dean of Students’ residence brought us together towards the beginning of my final year, and we began to have lunch together once in a while. Neither of us was the devil we had created in our own minds, but we didn’t become warm friends, either. We enjoyed discussing my studies and his research. Weekly lunches became dinners at his apartment, and we slowly began to treat each other as adults. I think it was easier for him to do so exactly because we had lived apart when I was in high school. He had fewer mental images of non-adult me to get in the way of seeing me as a young lady and an accomplished student. The kind of young adult and accomplished student that he had always taken to bed.

And after a glass or two too many of wine one night, he kissed me, first on my cheek, then on the lips. I jerked my head back six inches, stunned, and stared into his eyes. Then I hastily gathered my things and left, mumbling nonsense while he apologized. I slept poorly that night, imagining him with one of his students, naked and making love.

I went to lunch without him the next day, but he found me in the eating facility and sat down silently. I got up, dumped what I had not had time to eat, and departed. He found me the next day and I decided running was not going to work. I said something like “You shouldn’t have done that,” and I remember exactly what he said: “I don’t know how to love you. I’m sorry, but I don’t.”

I waited a few days before dining with him again. I felt ashamed of myself for wanting his love in any form, but spent a little more time than usual on my hair, makeup, and outfit. Of course he noticed – spotting compliant young women was his life’s work. The kiss at the door when I arrived was perfectly chaste and placed on my cheek, but he had never before kissed me upon arrival. We sat and talked and made excuses for our past hostility. We discussed some not yet defined new relationship we would have. He suggested we “hash everything out, put the past in the past.” He joked that he would lock up the wine and I told him I wanted a drink to help me relax.

We were on our second glass when I began to hash. I talked about the trauma of discovering him in the house that day seven years before and he countered with resentment that I had told Mom instead of giving him a chance. I gave him a hard time about his “cradle-robbing young girls”. He said they were all adults who knew what they wanted. He said sometimes they pursued him, looking for high grades or merely excitement “they couldn’t get from inexperienced college boys.”

I was angry, and I asked him what he would think about a man his age sleeping with me. Turns out he thought that was a great idea. It was so many things mixing at once. Part daring each other: “You wouldn’t.” “Try me.” “I hate you”. “I always loved you.” And then I softly repeated his words: “I don’t know how to love you.”

“Let’s try,” he whispered and he pressed his lips to mine. I can’t describe the sex. I know now that it was the most emotion-laden intercourse either of us would ever have. I was reclaiming my lost Father. Sex had taken him away and now sex was bringing him back. He was subduing the most-perfect young protégé ever, his own lost girl. Each of us blamed Mom for splitting our family, and we briefly thought of her as we screwed like maniacs to undo her handiwork. He was punishing me for ratting him out, making me reenact his crime. He was also punishing Mom for divorcing him, turning her sweet little princess into a just another horny student. We sank exhausted into the wet sweaty sheets, still lip-locked. We now knew how to love each other.

I spent the last five weeks of the school year in his bed most nights, clawing and scratching to reclaim my father. Mom was always in my head – there was something weird about how we felt about Mom. We each thought we were sort of taking something away from her. She had thrown him out and I was letting him back in. Again and again. It was pretty terrific, as sex I mean. He made me cum so hard I hurt the next day like cramping.

The taboo set us both on fire. I had been on birth control since puberty so we didn’t use condoms. Cum is a powerful symbol in an incest situation. “I did this in your Mother years ago and made you, now I’m putting it inside YOU, too.” The final week we discussed the real world and agreed that we would dial things way back. At Graduation he was almost invisible and Mom got to be the proud single parent. Sex diminished to once every few weeks, me sneaking out to visit him. We used condoms, no longer committed to an exclusive relationship. I had a new job, and he then went away for a sabbatical for a year.

Things were different when he got back, and we rarely have sex now, maybe three or four times a year. My mom doesn’t know that I had sex with my father. They’ve been divorced almost 10 years now, neither remarried. I’m 25, and he has a thing for late teen girls, so he would have entirely moved on from old me by now except for the incest angle, which keeps him attracted, putting himself back up high inside me. Paying me back for ratting him out ten years before, giving me what I deserve.

Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/it2fy0/mf_incest_i_dont_know_how_to_love_you