The Night My Father Took Me for the First Time

There are four of us in the living room of the country house. The lamp in the corner barely gives off any light, and everything has that warm, secret tone of late-night confessions. The wine glasses sit half-full on the little wooden table, and my three children watch me from their seats with that still, attentive look I know well: the look of people who know what they’re about to hear is not just any story.

Lucía, the eldest, is twenty-five and is sitting in the armchair with her legs tucked under her body. Rodrigo, the middle one, is twenty and is on the floor leaning against the sofa, elbows on his knees. Ana, the youngest, also twenty, is beside me on the sofa and biting her lip with that little gesture she has when she concentrates all her attention on something.

—Mom —Lucía begins, her voice a little hoarse—. Tell us something from when you were young. Something real.

I look at her without hurrying. She drops her eyes for a moment and lifts them again. We both know what she’s asking for.

—What exactly do you want to know? —I ask, though I already know the answer.

—The first time —Rodrigo says, not moving from the floor—. The real first time.

Ana nods slowly, saying nothing. She waits. Rodrigo’s jaw is tight. Lucía has crossed her arms over her chest as if trying to hold herself in.

I smile. I run my tongue over my lips, let the silence stretch a little longer than necessary, and begin to speak.

***

It was the summer of 1998. I had just turned nineteen and I lived in a village inland, one of those places where everyone knows each other and August nights smell of dry earth and rosemary burnt by the sun.

My father, Don Esteban, was sixty-four then. Tall, still strong despite his age, with completely white hair and big rough hands from working the land all his life. He was a man of few words and long silences that said more than most speeches. When he spoke, people listened. When he looked at you, people lowered their eyes.

I was aware that I was beautiful. Not in an innocent way, but in that way a young girl learns to feel the weight of men’s stares and carry it with her. I had straight black hair to my shoulders, my mother’s dark eyes, firm breasts that showed under any T-shirt, and a round ass that by that summer had finished deciding what it wanted to be. I knew the men in the village looked at me. I knew some of those men were far too old to be looking at me like that. And I knew one of them was my father.

I had known it for a while. What I didn’t know yet was that I was looking at him too. That for weeks I had been slipping two fingers into my pussy at night thinking about my father’s cock, imagining how big it would be under his pajama pants, imagining how it would taste, how it would hurt, how it would fill me.

***

The night everything changed was a Thursday in August, three weeks after my birthday. My mother, Amalia, was in the kitchen washing the dinner dishes. The sound of the water reached the living room as a steady, soothing background noise.

I had spent weeks unable to sleep properly. A heat unlike summer heat, something that settled in my belly and soaked my cunt every time my father walked into a room, every time his hands brushed mine as he passed something across the table, every time I saw him in his armchair with his eyes half-lidded and that expression of a man who has worked too hard and rests too little.

I stood up. I put on my short nightgown, the thin one that left more to the imagination than it covered, with no panties underneath, and went downstairs into the living room barefoot. The tile floor was cool under my feet. My nipples stood hard against the fabric, and I could feel the wetness between my thighs with every step.

My father was in his armchair, wearing a T-shirt and pajama pants. Eyes open, gaze fixed on the switched-off television. When he heard me come in, he looked up.

—What are you doing up? —he asked.

—I can’t sleep —I said. And I stopped in front of him.

There was a silence. The kind of silence that takes up more space than words.

—Daddy —I said softly—. I need you to do something to me.

He didn’t answer right away. He looked at me with still eyes, that way of his of weighing everything before opening his mouth. But I also saw his gaze drop for an instant to my outlined nipples and then come back up.

—I’ve been like this for weeks —I went on—. Thinking about you. Putting my fingers in myself in bed thinking about you. I can’t keep pretending nothing’s happening.

—Elena —he said, in a very low, very careful voice—. I’m your father.

—I know. And that’s why I want you and no one else.

Another silence.

—You’re too young —he said, though he didn’t move from the armchair and though I could already see the hard bulge pressing against his pants.

—I’m nineteen —I answered—. And I know exactly what I want. I want you to fuck me, Daddy. I want you to be the first.

I took another step closer. He stayed motionless. I could see in his eyes the struggle between what he felt and what a father should do. And I could also see which side was winning.

I put my hands on his knees and knelt slowly in front of him. I lifted my nightgown just enough for him to see, between my spread thighs, my shaved pussy shining with wetness.

—Please —I whispered—. Look how wet you make me.

He closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, something had changed. He reached out and touched my cheek with the back of his fingers, very slowly, as if checking that I was real. Then he lowered that same hand and ran two fingers over my open cunt from bottom to top, pausing for a second on my clit. I shuddered all over.

—You’re soaked —he said, his voice rougher than I had ever heard it.

—I’ve been like this for weeks.

He brought his fingers to his mouth and sucked them, never taking his eyes off me.

—Come here —he said softly.

***

I climbed onto his lap. He put his hands on my waist, those big calloused hands, and pulled me toward him. He smelled of tobacco, cheap soap, of something that was simply him and that had driven me crazy for longer than I liked to admit.

—If we go on —he said very close to my ear—, there’s no turning back. I’m going to fuck you until you don’t remember your name, daughter. Think carefully.

—I don’t want to turn back —I answered—. Fuck me already, Daddy.

He started kissing my neck. Slowly, unhurriedly, as if we had all night, which was exactly what we had. His hands ran over my back beneath the nightgown, memorizing a geography he already knew by sight but had never touched like this. He pulled my nightgown over my head in one yank and threw it to the floor.

He stared at my breasts for a moment, silent, before grabbing one with that huge farmer’s hand and taking the other straight to his mouth. He sucked my nipple hard, his teeth grazing me, and I let out a moan I couldn’t hold back. He ran that broad, rough tongue from one breast to the other, biting, tugging, leaving my nipples red and hard as stones. I grabbed his head with both hands and pressed it to my chest, panting.

I could feel my father’s hard cock pressing against my bare thigh, thick, hot through the thin pajama pants. I rubbed against it without being able to stop myself, my wet cunt leaving a dark stain on the fabric.

He slid one hand between us and shoved two fingers into my pussy at once. I threw my head back and cried out softly. I had never had anything as thick as my father’s fingers inside me. He started moving them in me, slowly at first, then faster, while with his thumb he rubbed my clit with a precision I would never have expected from a sixty-four-year-old man.

—Yes —I panted—, like that, Daddy, like that.

—You’re so tight, Elena —he murmured, his lips against my neck—. You’re going to feel my cock like it’s splitting you in two.

—I want to feel it —I panted—. I want you to put it all the way in.

I leaned over him. I unbuttoned his pajama pants slowly, never taking my eyes off his. He let me do it. When I pulled down the waistband and his cock sprang free, I stared at it for a long second. It was huge. Thick, dark at the tip, with swollen veins standing out and the head shiny with pre-cum. Bigger than anything I had imagined on all those nights with my fingers in bed.

I took it in one hand —I couldn’t even close my fist around it— and squeezed it, moved it up and down, feeling it hard as hot iron. My father gave a low grunt and clutched the back of my neck.

I slipped from his lap to the floor and spread his legs. I lowered my face slowly, not taking my eyes off him. I licked him first from base to tip, with a broad tongue, tasting him all over. Then I sucked the head, playing with it with my tongue, while my hand squeezed the base.

—Take it in your mouth —he said, his voice hoarse—. All of it, if you can.

I opened my mouth and took it in. I took it in slowly, learning, letting time stretch, feeling it fill my mouth until it brushed my throat. I gagged a little at first, saliva escaping from the corners of my mouth, but I kept going until my nose touched the gray hair at his pubic mound. He leaned his head back against the armchair and closed his eyes with a low sound that was not exactly a moan but something more contained, more intimate.

I started sucking him in earnest. Up and down, taking him with my whole mouth, letting spit run over his balls and soak everything. He put a hand on the back of my neck and started setting the rhythm, pressing me, forcing me to take him deeper. I let him. I sucked him from below, my eyes full of tears from the effort, my face red, my lips stretched around that thick shaft that belonged to my father.

—Fuck, Elena —he whispered—. Fuck, daughter.

I pulled his cock out of my mouth with a wet sound and licked his balls, first one and then the other, sucking each one fully into my mouth. He was trembling all over. I moved back up the shaft, licking along the side, and took him back to the hilt.

—Stop —he said after a while, his voice rough—. Stop, daughter, or we won’t get to anything else, and I want to come inside you.

***

My mother appeared in the kitchen doorway at that moment.

She dried her hands on her apron. She looked at us. She didn’t say anything for what seemed to me like a long time. Then she crossed the living room slowly, took the chair by the window, and sat down.

—Go on —she said simply.

I looked at her, confused, my lips still shining with my father’s cock and saliva dripping from my chin. She looked back at me with a calm I wouldn’t understand until years later.

—Your father loves you —she said—. And I’ve been watching you for a long time. Go on.

My father said nothing. He lifted me in his arms and placed me over him, straddling him, my knees sinking into the armchair on either side of his hips. His hard, saliva-wet cock was right beneath my pussy, brushing my lips, and I started rubbing against it without thinking, wetting it completely with my own arousal.

***

What came next was slower and more careful than I had imagined. My father wasn’t in a hurry. As if he knew there would only be one first time and wanted it to be unrepeatable.

He grabbed my waist with both hands and held me suspended over him. With one hand he took hold of his cock and set the tip against the entrance to my pussy. I felt the thick head pushing there, barely parting my lips, and I panted.

—Lower yourself —he said—. At your own pace. I’m holding you.

I began to lower myself. Slowly, feeling that enormous cock open me inside millimeter by millimeter. When he started entering me for real, I had to bite my lip hard not to scream. It was the real first time. No boy my age came anywhere close to that size.

—Breathe —he said, his voice rough—. Relax. That’s it. Slowly. Open yourself for your father.

The pain was brief and sharp —a hot sting as the head pushed through the closed flesh— and then it dissolved into something completely different. A fullness I hadn’t known existed. I sank a little more and felt his cock making its way inside me, filling every centimeter of space I hadn’t known I had. I kept lowering myself. And lowering. Until my ass rested on his thighs and I realized I had all of his cock buried to the hilt inside me.

—I’ve got all of it in me —I whispered, eyes wide—. I have it all inside.

—That’s it, daughter. Now fuck me slowly.

—Daddy —I whispered, my eyes closed.

—I’m here —he said.

He moved slowly at first, letting me get used to it. I rested my forehead on his shoulder and let myself be carried along. I started rising and falling on him, feeling his cock come out of me almost all the way and then go back in to the hilt, touching places no finger of mine had ever reached. I could hear his breathing speed up little by little, feel his hands on my hips guiding the rhythm, feel his body answering mine with the urgency of a man who has held something back for too long.

I started moving faster. I was riding him in the armchair, my breasts bouncing in front of his face, and he sucked one nipple and then the other, biting them, leaving marks. The armchair creaked. My pussy made a wet, obscene sound every time I sank down, a slapping splash I had never heard before and that made me even hotter.

—You’re so tight, daughter —he panted—. What a cunt you have.

—It’s yours —I panted back—. It’s all yours, Daddy.

My mother, from her chair by the window, watched us in silence. Her hands were clasped in her lap and her expression was one I couldn’t fully read: something between sadness and satisfaction, between resignation and relief.

When I came for the first time, it was without warning, without expecting it, with a shudder that ran through my whole body and left me breathless for several seconds. My pussy clenched around his cock in violent spasms, squeezing it, sucking it from within. I screamed into his neck, moaned filthy, and felt the orgasm shake me all the way to the soles of my feet. My father felt me tighten around him and held me even harder without stopping, taking me now from below, driving up with his hips, pounding into me.

—Good —he said in my ear—. That’s it. Let go. Come on your father’s cock.

The orgasm kept going, chained one to another, while he kept driving into me. I didn’t know a body could give so much. I was trembling all over, eyes rolling back, mouth open.

He grabbed my hair, pulled my head back, and kissed me on the mouth for the first time that night. A deep kiss, with tongue, while he kept fucking me. He tasted of tobacco and wine and something older than me.

When he finally came, with that low, contained groan I would spend many years hearing in my dreams, he stayed still for a long moment with his arms around me. I felt the hot spurts of semen shooting inside me, one after another, filling my cunt until I could feel it leaking out and running down the insides of my thighs. Then he brushed the hair away from my face and looked me straight in the eyes.

—Are you okay? —he asked.

—Yes —I answered. And it was completely true.

I stayed still on top of him, his cock still hard and buried inside me, feeling his semen and my own juices mixed together dripping from the base of his cock down onto his balls.

***

But the night wasn’t over.

My father let me catch my breath for a while. He ran his hand over my back in silence, not speaking. I could feel how, inside me, he was still hard. It hadn’t even gone down. Then, when my breathing settled, he leaned toward my ear.

—Turn around —he said—. I want more of you. I want the other hole.

I looked at him. He held my gaze without looking away.

—That hurts at first too —he said, with an honesty I appreciated—. But only at first. Then you’ll like it even more than the first.

My mother, from her chair, watched us. She didn’t say anything. She just slowly lifted her skirt and folded her hands in her lap, her eyes fixed on us. Under her raised skirt you could see her thighs spread and one hand that had already slipped between them, moving slowly.

I got up from my father —feeling his cock slide out of me with a wet sound and a flood of semen spilling from my cunt and running down my thighs— and got down on all fours on the sofa, my ass lifted high toward him. I heard my father spit into his hand and felt his touch, cold and hot at the same time, on my asshole, wetting me with spit and with my own semen that he had scooped from my cunt. His fingers prepared me slowly, without hurrying. First one, circling at the entrance, pushing very slowly until the muscle opened for him. I clenched my teeth.

—Breathe —he said—. Push as if you were trying to fart my finger out. Like that.

The finger went all the way in. It burned. I stayed still for a moment, getting used to the sensation. Then he started moving it inside me, in and out, widening me. He added a second finger. I moaned, between the pain and something darker that was already beginning to mingle in. He put both in to the knuckle and opened me, scissoring me.

—Relax —he repeated—. Trust me.

He pulled his fingers out. I felt the thick tip of his cock pressing against my asshole, wet with saliva and semen. He pushed.

When the head forced through the muscle, the pain was intense and sharp for a few seconds. I screamed with my mouth shut, biting my fist, pressing myself into the cushion. I felt that very thick cock opening my ass centimeter by centimeter, advancing with deliberate slowness that made me feel every millimeter of skin stretching.

—You’re in —he panted, his voice trembling—. You’ve got all of it buried in your ass, Elena.

Then the pain began to mix with something harder to name. Something dark and deep I had never felt and that, paradoxically, made me want more. A filthy pleasure, different from pussy pleasure, more intense, more animal.

—Daddy —I panted—. Don’t stop. Fuck my ass. Hard.

—I’m not stopping —he said.

He started moving. His thrusts were slow and deep, completely different from before. Each one went farther than I thought possible. I could feel his cock slide almost all the way out —my asshole closing around the head— and then go back in to the hilt, pushing me forward. I gripped the sofa cushion with my fingers and let my body find the rhythm on its own.

He grabbed my hips with both hands, digging his fingers in, and started speeding up. This was no longer care: it was hunger. He fucked my ass with hard, dull thrusts that made a sound of flesh against flesh every time his thighs hit mine. I pushed back, meeting him, moaning like I had never heard myself moan before.

—Take it —I panted—, all of it, Daddy, give it all to me.

I slid one hand between my legs and started rubbing my clit with two fingers. I was close again. My pussy was clenching around nothing while my father’s cock opened my ass with every thrust, and the two sensations together were driving me insane.

My mother came in silence from her chair. I knew it by the small sound she made, that contained sound I would learn to recognize much later, and by how she stayed still for several seconds with her head thrown back and her hand frozen between her thighs.

I came a second later, with a strangled cry, squeezing my ass around my father’s cock so hard he let out a groan. My whole body was shaking. The ass orgasm was different: deeper, longer, something that came from a place inside me I hadn’t known existed.

When my father came for the second time that night, he did it with a longer, lower sound than the first. He drove in to the hilt and stayed there, holding my hips tightly, and I felt his heat inside me, shot after shot, filling my ass with his semen. I closed my eyes. When he finally pulled out, I felt the semen beginning to leak out and run down my thigh, and he bent down and ran his tongue over it, gathering it up, sliding up my leg to the cleft of my ass, licking my open asshole and the semen of his own that filled it.

I shivered one last time, spent.

The three of us stayed silent for a while I couldn’t measure.

***

My mother was the first to move. She pulled down her skirt, got up from the chair calmly, and went back into the kitchen without saying anything. I heard the tap running. The ordinary sound of an ordinary night, except nothing would ever be exactly the same again.

I stayed in my father’s arms a while longer, my head on his chest, listening to his breathing return to normal. I could feel the semen sliding inside both holes, my pussy and ass throbbing at the same time, sore and happy.

—What happens now? —I asked after a long while.

He took a while to answer.

—Now you both sleep —he said—. And tomorrow, the sun comes up.

That wasn’t the answer to what I was really asking. But it was an answer. And that night, it was enough for me.

***

The following days were strange. Not in a bad way. Strange in the sense that the world remained exactly the same —the heat, the meals, the usual silences— but I saw everything from another angle. As if I had crossed a door that would never be closed again.

My father treated me the same as always in front of anyone else. But sometimes, when no one else was there, he would brush the back of my hand as he passed, or look at me with that long, still gaze of his, or slide his hand under my skirt in the hallway and check with two fingers whether I was still wet from him —I always was—, and I knew it had not been a dream. That everything had happened exactly as I remembered it.

My mother didn’t change either, at least not visibly. She kept cooking, kept tidying up, kept watching television at night. Only sometimes, when she looked at me, there was something different in her eyes. It wasn’t anger. It wasn’t exactly understanding either. It was something older and more complicated than either of those things. As if she had seen something that surprised her less than it should have, and had to decide what to do with it.

That was my real first time. Not the one with the nineteen-year-old boy from the summer before. Not the quick kisses at village parties. That night in the living room, with the lamp in the corner off and the sound of my mother’s tap in the background, with my father’s cock splitting my pussy for the first time and then my ass, with semen running down the insides of my thighs.

***

In the living room, Lucía has her eyes wide open and her glass forgotten in her hand. Rodrigo has straightened up and rests his forearms on his knees, his gaze fixed on me. Ana is breathing slowly and holding herself still like someone who hasn’t moved in a long time.

—And after? —Lucía asks, her voice very low.

—After —I say— was the longest summer of my life. And not exactly because of the heat.

The three of them fall silent, waiting.

I pick up my glass, take a long sip, and smile.

—But that —I say— is for another night.