I was eighteen years old the first time I saw my dad’s c#ck. I had come home early from school because someone had scrawled a bomb threat in a stall in one of the boys washrooms. He was coming out of the washroom n#ked, just having taken a shower, as I was coming up the stairs en route to my bedroom. I only got a couple second look at it as he saw me, covered himself with his hands and stepped back into the washroom.
It was an image that stuck with me, and it wasn’t because of the size — I had seen big c#cks before — but something else, something I couldn’t articulate. Maybe it was because his was the first Man’s c#ck I had seen, or maybe it was just because it was so tab0o. Whatever the reason, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. My m#sturbatory fantasies — usually centered around Gina’s muscular cousin Zack pinning me down and f#cking me like he had once when I was over at Gina’s working on a group project, or the time last Christmas when I blew Eric (a hot black guy who had a full-ride on a soccer scholarship) at a party when he was back in town for winter break — now involved my daddy.
After the daddy fantasies began, a question formed in my mind and would not go away: Was he as attracted to me as I was to him? Judging by the volume and quality of my tinder matches, the amount of sh#t that got talked about me by jealous b#tches, and the way that boys looked at me at school and men looked at me out in the wider world, I was a babe. Did my daddy look at me in the same way that all the other men did? Did he want tear off my clothes and f#ck his little girl? These were the thoughts that were swirling around my brain as I rubbed my cl#t at night. I knew that I was potentially f#cking up one of the most important relationships I would ever have in my life, but I had to know the answers to these questions; my body demanded it, and what I wanted, I got.
Normally I wore moderately sl#tty clothes to school and then changed into sweats or jammies when I got home, but after beginning my quest for daddy’s d#ck, I stepped my home-game up. I ditched the jammies in favour of thin yoga pants, and I turned my sweatpants into cut-offs that barely covered my a$s. Sometimes, when I was wearing my cut-offs, the bottom of my b#tt would peek out for a moment when I bent over (which was often). I felt like maybe he was paying more attention to me, but the results were far from conclusive. The parent who was paying attention to my new fashion choices was not the one I wanted to f#ck