My Father Saved Me That Night and Everything Changed Between Us

I’m twenty-three years old, thin and fine-boned, without too many curves, with that slightly graceful bearing left behind by ten years of artistic gymnastics. My brown hair falls to my waist, my skin is very pale, I still wear braces and round glasses that give me a perpetually absorbed look. Add to that the loose clothes I choose every morning, sweaters three sizes too big and straight-leg jeans, and you’ll have a pretty accurate idea of how I go unnoticed on campus. I study architecture, just like my father. And he’s the one who helps me with structural calculus problems when I get stuck.

My mother died two years ago. Since then, it’s just the two of us in the big house on the outskirts.

One October afternoon I went with Lucía, my best friend since college, to a cosplay convention downtown. I was dressed as a forest fairy: short green chiffon skirt, tall boots, two pigtails and a flower crown weighing on my forehead. It was the first time in years I’d seen my legs in a mirror. I felt strange, but also strangely light.

As we were leaving, waiting for a taxi on the corner, a guy came up to us. He smelled of beer and something bitter. Lucía tried to get him away from us, but he grabbed me by the arm and started pulling. I remember thinking I was going to cry like an idiot in front of all the people walking past without looking.

Then a car braked hard against the curb. The door opened before the engine had even finished turning off.

It was my father.

He’s forty-five, medium build, with a kind little belly that comes and goes depending on how strict he’s being with the gym, and the reflexes he had back when he trained in taekwondo at university. He only needed three moves to take the guy down. He got us into the car without saying a word, and only once we pulled away did he ask if we were okay.

“Your father is amazing, Renata,” Lucía told me when we dropped her off at her building.

“Yeah,” I answered, not daring to look at her.

“If I were ten years younger, I’d make a move,” she laughed, and kissed me on the cheek before getting out.

I was left alone in the back seat, staring at the back of my father’s neck and his steady hands on the wheel, and I knew in that instant that I hadn’t gotten over anything. I felt my cunt getting wet beneath the green chiffon skirt, and I pressed my thighs together hard so it wouldn’t show.

***

I must have been nineteen when I saw them for the first time. I was coming back from the bathroom in the early hours, and the door to the master bedroom was ajar. I heard them before I understood what I was hearing: my mother’s quick breathing, my father’s deep voice giving short instructions. I took three steps closer. Only three. And I looked through the gap.

He had her on all fours on the bed, one hand tangled in her wavy hair and the other planted on her hip. He was driving into her with methodical violence that left me breathless. My father’s cock went in and out of my mother’s cunt with a wet slap, shining with slick, so thick it spread her asscheeks apart each time he buried it to the hilt. My mother had her eyes closed, her mouth open, and she was making a low, guttural sound, somewhere between a moan and a growl, that I had never heard from her before. “That’s it, whore, that’s it, that’s how you like it,” my father muttered through his teeth, and she answered with a “yes, daddy, harder, break me.” My father looked downward, focused on what he was doing, and suddenly he lifted one foot, planted it on my mother’s nape, pressing her face into the mattress without stopping his movements, as if she were an instrument he was tuning. He gave her a sharp slap on the ass that rang through the room and left the red imprint of his hand on her skin.

I didn’t leave. I didn’t run. I pressed my back against the doorframe, felt heat sliding down through my belly, and my hand found its own way under my pajamas. I was soaked between the legs and I didn’t understand why. My fingers sank between the lips of my virgin cunt and found my swollen clit, throbbing, and I started rubbing it in small circles while biting down on the pajama fabric so I wouldn’t moan. I watched my father pull his cock out completely — a long, thick dick, with a throbbing vein running along it — and shove it into my mother’s mouth without giving her time to breathe, all the way to the back of her throat, until she choked and strings of saliva dripped down her chin. Then he put her back on all fours and drove his cock into her ass in one single thrust. My mother gave a muffled scream and I felt myself come for the first time in my life, right there standing up, my fingers soaked and my legs trembling. My father came on my mother’s back, a thick white load that ran down her spine and soaked her hair, she collapsed like a doll, and I went back barefoot to my room without either of them suspecting I had been there.

That image haunted me for years. I would wake up with the sheets damp, my hand between my thighs, and a shame I didn’t know how to name. That’s why I started wearing oversized sweaters, that’s why I stopped looking my father in the eye, that’s why I buried myself in notes and calculus exercises. I thought that if I buried it deep enough, it would end up dying on its own.

And then my mother got sick, and she was gone, and suddenly it was just the two of us in a house that was far too big.

***

That night, after the cosplay incident, I didn’t take off the costume. I sat on the sofa with my father and we put on some random movie. He dimmed the lights, poured us two glasses of red wine, and handed me a blanket. I rested my head on his shoulder the way I used to when I was ten. He let me do it.

“You look so much like her,” he said at some point, without taking his eyes off the screen.

“That’s not true,” I replied. “Mom had more body. And wavy hair. I’m a broomstick.”

We both laughed, and the laughter ended in silence, and the silence stretched long.

“I miss her,” we said at the same time.

He turned his face toward me. I turned mine. We ended up at that distance where pretending is no longer possible. We looked at each other for one, two, three seconds. And then he lowered his head, or I lifted mine, I don’t know, and we kissed. His tongue came into my mouth hungry, and mine went looking for it, and I bit his lower lip without meaning to.

Don’t stop, I thought. Please, don’t stop.

He didn’t stop. His hands slid down my back until they found the skirt zipper. He took it off slowly, as if he expected me to stop him, and when I didn’t, he kept going. He pulled off my blouse, the flower crown; the two pigtails came undone on their own. I was left in white underwear on the sofa, breathing shakily, and he looked at me as if he were seeing me for the first time in his life. I saw the hard bulge pressing against his trousers and felt my stomach tighten.

He unhooked my bra with one hand and my small tits were bared, the nipples already hard as pink pebbles. He bent down and sucked one, first the left, then the right, nibbling them carefully, tugging with his teeth, leaving them glossy with saliva. I arched my back against the sofa and let out a sharp moan I hadn’t known was inside me.

“Wait, daddy,” I said when he tried to climb on top of me. “I’m a virgin.”

He went very still. I thought he would back away, that he would be horrified, that he would send me to bed and the next day we would pretend this had never happened. But instead he lowered his face to my neck, gently bit the skin below my ear, and started moving downward. He went past my collarbone, my cleavage, my belly. He pulled my white panties off by tugging at the sides with his teeth, and when they fell to the floor I was completely naked, my legs clamped together in shame.

“Open up, my love,” he told me in a deep voice I didn’t know he had. “Let me see you.”

And I opened my legs. Very slowly. My thighs were shaking. He licked his lips as he looked at my cunt, virgin, half-shaved, already glistening with my own wetness. He blew lightly over it and I jumped.

“What a pretty little cunt you’ve got, princess,” he murmured. “So tiny. So wet. All for daddy.”

I was nothing. I was just a ragged breath and a pair of hands gripping the back of the sofa. When his mouth reached me, everything I knew about myself shifted. His tongue ran over my lips from top to bottom, slow, broad, then closed around my clit and started sucking it with a steady rhythm that made me tremble all over. His fingers came after, two at first, thick, slow, opening me up, curving inside until they found a spot I hadn’t known existed. I moaned with my face buried in a cushion because I didn’t want him to hear me, and at the same time I wanted the whole neighborhood to hear me. I felt a wave rise from my feet, close in my belly, and explode. I came in his mouth with a muffled cry, soaking his beard, and he didn’t stop, he kept sucking and licking until I shoved his head away with both hands because I couldn’t take any more.

“That’s enough, daddy,” I said hoarsely, breathing as if I’d run for miles. “I’m ready now. Put it in me.”

***

He stripped too. I saw him in full for the second time in my life, but this time nobody was going to send me back to bed. His cock jutted out from his belly, thick, long, with a swollen purple head and a clear drop at the tip. I reached out and wrapped my fingers around it — I couldn’t quite close them all the way — and he let out a low groan that made my thighs tighten.

“Suck me, princess,” he whispered. “Taste daddy.”

I knelt on the sofa and took him into my mouth. I had never done that. The tip barely passed my lips and I already felt filled to the brim. I sucked him as best I could, clumsy, helping with my hand, slobbering over him so he’d slide better. He grabbed my hair with both hands, guided me, taught me the rhythm, pushed me little by little until I felt him hit the back of my throat and I choked. My eyes filled with tears and strings of spit hung from my chin. I looked up at him from below, braces and all, and he said, “That’s it, my love, that’s it, suck daddy’s cock all the way,” and I tried even harder.

Then he laid me back on the sofa again. He settled on top of me, brushed my hair away from my face, and asked me with his eyes if I was sure. I answered by closing my legs around his waist. I felt the tip of his cock resting against my cunt, sliding up and down, soaking in my wetness, and I thought I was going to die from wanting him.

He entered me little by little. I felt the brief tear, the stab, the burn, the flesh opening to let him pass. I bit my lip so I wouldn’t cry. He stayed inside, not moving, waiting for my body to get used to having him all the way in, and all the while he was kissing my forehead, my temples, my closed eyelids.

“Are you okay?” he murmured.

I nodded.

He started moving, slowly at first, pulling almost all the way out and sliding back in with patience, and the pain turned into a dull ache and then into something I didn’t know how to name. A wave growing from below and rising up to my chest. I clung to his shoulders, dug in my nails, stopped breathing like a normal person. Each thrust was surer, deeper, and little by little I lost track of where my body ended and his began. I could feel his cock rubbing inside me against a place that burned and throbbed at the same time, and I heard myself moan things — “daddy, daddy, more, like that, don’t stop” — without recognizing my own voice.

Then he changed my position. He put me on my side, lifted my top leg until I had it resting on his shoulder — the years of gymnastics let me open up without protest — and settled behind me. One hand held my hip; the other had found my left breast and was kneading it with maddening patience, pinching my nipple between thumb and forefinger every time he pushed harder. His cock went in at a different angle, deeper, and I felt the weight of his balls hitting my ass with every thrust. His mouth was pressed to my ear, telling me things — “you’re so tight, my love,” “for daddy, right? this little cunt is all for daddy,” “tell me you’re mine” — that I could barely hear but understood with my whole body, and I answered, “yes, daddy, yours, all yours, come inside.”

When I came for the second time in my life — this one with a cock inside me — I cried. I cried without knowing why. My cunt contracted around him in spasms I couldn’t control, squeezing him, milking him, and he gave three more thrusts, deep, savage, and emptied himself inside me with a long groan born in his chest. I felt the hot spurts fill me from within, one, two, three, four, and something broke and was fixed at the same time. He held me from behind, stayed inside me without moving, and let me cry until I stopped, while his semen leaked back out and ran down my thigh.

“I’m yours,” I said with a broken voice. “I’ll always be yours.”

And I knew it was true.

***

Six months have passed since that night. I don’t sleep in my room anymore. My room is now a huge dressing room where I keep clothes I never would have dared wear before. Tight dresses, pencil skirts, jeans that hug my shape. I started going to the gym three times a week — the professors noticed, so did my classmates — and I discovered I had a body worth looking at. I took advantage of the flexibility left to me by years of gymnastics to invent new positions with him almost every night: the split on top of his cock, feet behind the neck, the bridge while he pounds me from above.

I shaved my cunt completely, smooth as a bar of soap, because he likes being able to see everything while he fucks me. I let my nails grow out. I swapped my round glasses for rectangular ones that my father said made me look older. I still have the braces, but there are three months left until they come off. He says he loves the feel of the metal when I suck his cock, so sometimes I feel sorry they’re going to take them out.

Before we make love we have a ritual. We start with a sixty-nine on the big bed that used to be my parents’ bedroom and is now ours. Me on top, with my shaved cunt over his face and his beard scraping my thighs. I run my tongue along his dick from the base to the tip, glide over the thick veins that run through it, lick his balls one by one, take them into my mouth little by little, and then swallow him whole as far as I can, until the tip hits the back of my throat and tears blur my vision. He, meanwhile, has his tongue buried inside my cunt and two fingers playing with my ass, and the flexibility from my training years does the rest. Sometimes I come like that, with my mouth full of cock, choking on his load at the same time mine bathes his face.

After that he makes love to me in every possible way — on my knees against the headboard, face down with a pillow under my hip, sitting on top and riding him the way I learned to do it — and every night I tell him the same thing while he fills me with semen: I’m yours, I’m yours, I’m yours. Like a mantra. Like surrender.

Sometimes, when I shower alone in the morning and look at myself in the mirror — with his fingerprints on my hip, the bites on my neck and the trail of semen still running down my thigh — I think about that girl in the loose sweater and round glasses who hid behind her bangs. I miss her a little. But not enough to be her again.