Dating Dad

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Please understand that this is a story. This is not a fap session. This is Jessica’s troublesome life. She deserves the time that it will take to read her story. It is real, and raw. please settle in and take this journey with me.

Please. I’m begging. Take the time to comment.

I am truly sorry if you do not enjoy this, and would like to know why.

I love you all. -levilx

The music was part of me, I danced with pure, unadulterated joy. For the first time in my life, I felt free. Our movements were fluid and asynchronous. We danced with our bodies pressed together, and it was amazing. The bass pounded its rhythm into everything around us, and our bodies responded harmonizing. An atmosphere of sensuality settled over us heavy with the freedom of movement and sexuality. A high so natural and powerful that the laws of nature seemed to warp around us.

I looked into my father’s eyes, my hands on each side of my head, my fingers intertwined into my hair, feeling sexy and desirable. Feeling wanted. My body pulsed to the beat of the music. He looked into my eyes as I ground against him. I ached, I wanted more than just his leg between mine. His hands were all over me, feeling me, caressing me. A wave of pure bliss and affection washed over me, I was so relaxed, and so full of love, I had never felt a connection so strongly before. I wanted nothing more than to have him explore the blossoming wetness between my legs.

This moment is cycling through my head. I don’t think it will ever be forgotten, I know it won’t. The rest of our night will be something I relive over and over, time and time again. It is an experience so intense and alive, so beautiful, that I don’t even know how I will put it into words. But I will do my best. Even now, recounting this small bit, I find myself moved to tears. But before we can continue, there are some things you must know about me.

This is my story, and how I ended up dating my own father.

If there was a checklist for the perfect American family, we could have checked everything off and added more to the list. Dad worked, and Mom stayed home to raise me. Trust me. I was a full time job. Dad had a 9-5 job and was always home for breakfast, and dinner. Dinner, that we all sat down and ate together. We ended the evening watching television shows, while Mom often ironed. Looking back, just now, I find myself smiling, at our familial memories.

I remember nights where I would pretend to fall asleep in front of the TV. I would cover my head while peeking out a crack in the blanket, so I could stay up later and watch TV. And still, I would pretend to be asleep while Dad carried me to bed. Mom would come in to tuck me in, and smother me with kisses, until I went into a fit of giggles. She always knew when I was awake. To this day the smell of clean sheets reminds me of my mother’s kisses.

It wasn’t always charm and perfection, there were tough times as well. I remember sitting in the car, we hadn’t gone far, maybe a couple of blocks. Dad had let me sit up front, and for some reason I wasn’t wearing a seat belt. We were singing along to one of Mom’s favorite songs, Dad loved to sing and dance with me. I guess the door wasn’t closed all the way. I’m still not sure to this day what happened. But the passenger side door swung open, as Dad was making a left hand turn into our driveway. Somehow I was holding onto it. The door opened and I went with it. My heels dragged across the pavement, and I held on for dear life. I am not sure if I was scared because I was outside a moving vehicle, or if it was my Mom’s screams of pure horror at what she was seeing. The car came to a stop, my shoes had been ruined and I watched round eyed, scared, as my parents fussed over me. It affected me, it affected all of us. This was the first time I saw my Dad cry, I can count on one hand the amount of times he’s cried.

I laid awake that night in bed, and listened to them. It was the first time I had ever heard them fight. They were up until late that night, not screaming or even yelling, but I could hear the hurt in my Mom’s voice, she felt betrayed.

I look back at my youth and I revel in the very real fairy tale that I lived in. I remember long summers spent with my Mom, cooking and baking. She would spend hours outside gardening and watering, while I played with bugs and sticks. There are so many enchanted memories I couldn’t begin to recount them all. Even to this day, a smell, or even a random song, will bring to the surface some wonderful adventure.

When Dad was home, our family was complete. Just a simple weekend drive would turn into an enchanted adventure. His energy was so positive that nobody could have a bad day with him around. We would explore beaches, finding castle like outcrops, where Mom would become queen, and myself the princess. Dad became the knight that protected our castle. We always played and laughed, we always loved and smiled. Dad’s crazy energy kept our souls full of life.

It wasn’t until my senior year, when life became bleak. I was so innocent, a princess with her royal family, I helped cheer Dad on when he fought imaginary dragons and monsters, with Avrupa Yakası Escort queen Mother by my side. I was never prepared to fight real life monsters. We had never armed ourselves to fight against the darkness of real life. However enchanted my childhood had been, it abruptly ended my fairy tale, as all tales must find a conclusion. Nothing lasts forever.

The second time I had ever seen my father cry was that night after school. We all sat down together for dinner, which was normal. The atmosphere was unusually heavy and somber. Dad’s energy, for the first time, seemed to be just out of his reach. Before our meal had even been finished, Mom burst into tears and ran from the room. I remember the feeling of utter shock, and how my Dad just sat there with his head bowed. My mother was not typically an overly emotional person, she wasn’t prone to such emotional outbursts. The shock of it sent chills through my blood.

“Jess” My Dad began, his eyes looked into mine and I could see the struggle between him and his own complete breakdown. I remember the lump in the back of my throat, and the trouble I had swallowing past it. I remember feeling like someone had placed a great weight on my chest, my breathing was short and sharp, desperate.

“Jess, I have something… to tell you…” he began again. “Today while you were at school…” he took a sip of water, it seemed to give him some strength to go on. Looking away from me, he broke, between choked off sobs he continued, his shoulders heaving. “I’m so… so.. sorry”

I did not even know, nor could I have ever guessed what he was about to say. But the emotional state of my father sobbing like a child, unable to finish even a sentence, broke me. I knew something was so wrong that my world would be shattered. An inherent truth that was written on his tear streaked face. Tears fell from my eyes, they were so hot, that to this day I marvel that they did not leave scars on my cheeks. My emotions and fears were so great that I sat across from my father and stared at him, frozen in time.

“Your Mom… shes… ” he began to speak, and taking a deep breath calmed himself. Likely finding the strength to go on, because he could see the absolute terror plainly etched into my face. “She’s sick…”

I don’t remember everything he said after that. He said many things, but the words that I do recall, I remember to this day, and can still hear them in his voice. “Doctor, Cancer, Months, Treatment”

When you move into adulthood, there are a great many truths that come crashing down around you. It is expected, and still difficult. The slow painful suffering of cancer is not easy for an adolescent. I watched as my sweet and loving mother slowly became sick. My father quit his job, staying home to care for her. I helped in every way I could, and still felt helpless.

When Mom’s hair started falling out from the treatments, I shaved her head and wrapped it in a scarf. Her sweet loving smile tried to tell me everything would be alright. But the feeling of hopelessness was so heavy in the air, that no smile could break through it, not even from our queen.

The sickness was brutal, and took everything from her. She became frail, and spent night after night vomiting while Dad, faithful as ever, tended to her. He was always our knight, he fought for her with a passion so great that it nearly broke him when she asked him to let her go. Mom was so sick, she couldn’t take it anymore, it took awhile for us to come face to face with that reality. But in the end, she left us and suffered no more.

It broke Dad, and with him not working, we ended up losing everything. The bills had piled up, and no money to pay them. We lost the house, our queen, and our fairy tale. The third time I ever saw my father cry, I watched as his tears left streaks down her coffin.

I was 18 when she passed, I was broken as well. Dad and I decided it was best for me to throw myself at my schoolwork and go to college, and so I did. I moved away, a broken teenager, with a broken family. Dad and I still talked, we talked about small stuff, like my grades, and his new job. We talked about how his new neighbor had a dog that kept shitting in his yard. We did not talk about Mom, we did not talk about ourselves. It wasn’t until two years later that I came across his picture on a dating app.

I was 20, and had been on the college scene for some time. Having a full understanding of what college men were all about, I decided to try a dating app, and set my location as far away from any schools as possible. I hadn’t seen my Dad in 2 years, he had aged, and grown a beard. He never told me he was growing a beard. There were speckles of gray in his short hair, even some in his well groomed beard. Facial hair was a new thing, he had shaved twice a day my whole life. I decided I liked it, it made him look refined and handsome. Dad had aged well.

I had just created my account and hadn’t even added pictures of myself yet. Really, I wasn’t even sure at the time, what it was, I was looking for. Browsing his profile I found myself giggling at the cliche things he had written. “Long walks Avrupa Yakası Bayan on the beach” and “enjoys laughing” there were a few more things, I can’t remember all of them. I actually found myself really enjoying his profile, it was humorous and full of pictures I had never seen. Some of the pictures were goofy, but most of them he had a somber cast to his face. Slowly, his profile started to transform for me. I knew the person he used to be, there were hints of that person. But I could tell how sad he still was, how lonely he must be.

Guilt isn’t something I really struggle with a lot. I am pretty carefree and don’t hold onto things. But I felt guilt for having left him by himself, it surrounded me, enveloping me in a shadow. My usual happy go lucky self felt dampened and restricted. In his eyes was an intense loneliness that I knew was partly my fault.

I clicked on the messenger compulsively and wrote a message.

Our conversation started with a simple hello, and me telling him that I enjoyed looking through his pictures. Dad, of course pointed out that I had none of my own. I hadn’t thought of that, and nearly panicked, thinking I was pretty clever I snapped a picture of my toes and sent it to him. He sent a picture back of his toes. That is how we started, sending weird pictures back and forth.

Weeks had gone by, and I hadn’t gone a day without talking to my father. It was different somehow, than it was before. We could talk about secrets, and share our innermost thoughts. I had not intended to end up where I was with him.

The message he had sent me, was clear, and passionate. “I am really into you, you make me smile every day.”

I didn’t know how to respond, this was a road that I had avoided traveling. It had been innocent conversation, I had avoided thinking ahead, about where this might go. So I didn’t respond, not for some time.

My phone called to me, begged me to pick it up, I finally gave in, and found that I had no new messages. I guess I was disappointed, so, not sure what to say, I decided to speak from the heart. “I like you as well, I am glad I make you smile, that warms my heart.” And then, after hitting send, on a whim I wrote. “You make me smile as well” and clicked send.

The response was not what I expected. I am not sure what it was exactly, that I expected. Maybe some long drawn out exchange of romantic bullshit. Or maybe something funny. Instead all it said was. “I should very much like to see that smile.”

It was sweet and warm, I smiled right then, his words gave me a feeling of happiness, just as I had told him. He did make me smile. I put on some dark red lipstick, and took a picture of just my smile. My lips were full and cracked into a genuine smile.

He thanked me, and looking backwards, I can’t remember him ever asking to see the rest of my face. It was like he knew me, not as his daughter, but as his online friend. He knew me intimately, from our conversations, so intimately, that it never occurred to him to ask to see my face. Maybe, with Mom gone, it was easier for him to do this, to look towards moving on, if he didn’t have to put a face on it.

We began talking more than ever, neither of us ever ran out of things to say. I found myself checking my messages, at all hours of the night. I seemed to live for every message. We began to talk about very personal things, I told him all about my abusive ex, something I hadn’t even let myself think about, much less talk about. I told him about my loneliness and my desire to find my true self, about what it was like to be a victim. And how I had overcome that and become stronger.

He talked about Mom, oh how my heart broke, to hear him talk about her. His messages were so filled with love and passion for her. Their passion for each other’s lives had been the driving force of their love. I learned so much about the both of them, like how Mom would leave little notes in places for him to find. I love you notes written in dust, or on a piece of paper tucked into his lunch for work. He talked of her beauty, and he talked about me.

I clung to every word, desperately getting to know the shining knight of my childhood. He told me of his love life, and my mother’s unbridled passion. I learned I had been conceived in a parking garage, their lust for one another set off by a simple pair of shoes she wore.

He told me of her passing, and I cried with him, I knew his pain and his loss, I knew my mother and his personal torment and self pity. I knew. I fucking knew. I fucking know. God help me what am I fucking doing? My anxiety hit new heights.

Over the next few months our conversations turned sexual, it was like a whole new world to me. I learned what excited him, and got to explore what excited me. I learned a whole new level of sexuality, and began a new chapter in my life. Hours of texting back and forth, talking about everything from bdsm to the different types of orgasms. It had me hot and horny.

In one day, I had to change my panties five times, I was soaking them through to the point of being uncomfortable. I would get nervous and think that the dampness Escort Avrupa Yakası was going to show through my skirt or clothing. I loved his obsession with my feet, and found opportunities to dress them up for him. Sending him picture after picture. I don’t know how much money I spent on shoes and pedicures.

When he sent me a picture of his dick, what I had been doing, started to sink in. This was my father. My Dad. What was wrong with me? I spent hour after hour talking to my father about my biggest, darkest sexual desires and fantasies. I had crossed a line, but I just couldn’t turn back. I had never felt such an emotional connection to anyone on this level. I was being selfish. I saved that picture, his dick looked like it had been sculpted, and it was framed by a taut and muscled stomach. He even had a happy trail that led down to it. He was well groomed, which shouldn’t have surprised me. I found myself looking and imagining that very fine penis within my reach, what did he taste like? What would Dad feel like inside of me?

Fantasy always reaches a point where it collides with reality. For me that point was, well me. I was the reality of the situation. I could not just schedule a meeting and appear and say, “here I am Daddy, let’s pretend like it’s not me after all this, and we can still make love!” I’m not sure at what point, I had decided that this is what I wanted, that I wanted my own father in more ways than a daughter should.

I dreamt up these fantastical ways for Dad and I to meet up. One recurring fantasy was of us meeting on October 31st. In it I could wear a mask for halloween, and he, oblivious to my real identity, would fall for my masquerade and allow me to undress him and show him my passion. As I said earlier, fantasy always meets reality. And this one was pretty far fetched, there were such factors as my voice, and size and build, and of course, my face.

The first year of our online relationship had been incredibly eventful, still I had not revealed my face, but I had revealed much, much more. I regularly took photos of myself in very compromising positions. Often in various stages of masturbation, I had begun getting waxes, as that was his preference. And often I would take photos or videos of me fingering myself. He would always tell me how beautiful and sexy I was. And I felt it as well. I felt beautiful, sexy, I felt desirable and wanted.

My desire for him to know my true identity, almost hit a crisis point. I cannot tell you how many times I began to type out that message, tears of self pity and self loathing bathing my cheeks. Only to delete it later. I had even gone so far as to consent to phone sex. Disguising my usually very girly voice by making it deeper, and using a prepaid phone to hide behind. Often I took photos of myself nude in my full length mirror, hiding my face behind my phone and flash. My strawberry blonde hair pulled into a bun. I wanted him to figure it out, and end this charade.

It had been years now since my father had seen me. Even our phone calls became scarce. While Jessica and Dad drifted apart, the real me felt closer than ever to him. I teased myself thinking that he might recognize my naked body. My breasts had filled out more since I was 18, I had moved from a b cup to a solid c, and I had put on some weight elsewhere. I wasn’t the scrawny girl he would remember. My hips and butt were considerably more pronounced. I was not fat by any means, and worked out regularly to ensure that.

Multiple times a day I sought release through masturbation, and every time I pushed my fingers into myself, I found myself wanting to describe it to my Dad. So I did, and so did he. He described his self pleasuring with such lurid detail, that I couldn’t sit still for the reading of it. He was incredibly comfortable with his sexuality and would often describe experimentation that most men would have blushed at. All it did for me was get me excited. The thought of him pleasuring himself while ogling my naked body was beyond arousing. He would describe to me such things as lubricating my feet, and using their slippery contours to bring himself to a climax, describing it in near poetry, I loved it.

What is wrong with me? Why am I like this? Is this normal? Will he ever forgive me? Panic runs deep and I remember these questions and feelings like they were yesterday. I think that in the end, this is why I chose to do what I did. It was this massive anxiety that pushed me to the breaking point, and why I put everything on the line to get what I wanted. To give him what I knew he needed , which was myself.

I discovered through our conversations that my father loved slang. These words I had so carefully avoided all my life, especially around one’s parents, were a huge turn on for him. I took to using words to describe my body to him while on the phone, that I would never have imagined using or saying before. I would tell him how wet my pussy was, or that I had my fingers buried in my cunt. I would even tell him how much I wanted his cock. I would describe to him what I would do with his cock in as lurid of a way as possible. His encouragements and grunts of passion while on the phone, marked his own sated pleasure. We became very vocal about our needs and desires, words being the only interaction we were truly capable of. I had no idea how, at the time this would translate for us in the bedroom. Of course I was defeated at the time thinking I would never have him in such a way.

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