What My Daughter Discovered on My Computer

My life changed completely when I separated from Elena, the only woman I had ever loved without reservation. It’s been three years since that divorce, and the wound is still there, hidden in the corners where I don’t see it every day. My name is Andrés, I’m forty years old, and from that marriage I was left with the only good thing: a daughter, Camila.

Camila just turned eighteen. She’s tall for her age, dark-haired, with a smile that makes anyone turn their head when she walks into a room. She has the body her mother had when I met her, the same sideways glance, the same long legs. I thought about it a thousand times before what happened happened, and I thought about it for no reason at all. It was just an observation, like someone noting the resemblance of a nephew.

Shared custody left us like this: alternate weekends and Tuesdays, when I pick her up from school and bring her to my place to sleep. The next day I take her back early and return to the office. We invented that routine three years ago and keep it as if it were a contract.

I bought a small house in the suburbs, in a quiet development near my job. It has a pool, a cramped garden, and two bedrooms. The first time she came to see it, Camila spent the whole afternoon deciding how to arrange hers. The house was as much her idea as mine.

Months ago she told me she wanted to come live with me permanently. The official reason is that she can’t stand Elena’s new partner. The real reason, which she and I both know, is another one. It’s what started that Saturday and what keeps happening every time we’re alone.

***

That Saturday it was raining. I picked her up from school and told her the plan was to do whatever she wanted. Movies, a downtown café that serves ice cream in winter, a stroll through the shops where she tried on three pairs of pants and kept one. We got home in the middle of the afternoon, happy, with that light euphoria that comes from spending the whole day with someone who loves you.

I put on the loose shorts I wear at home. Camila changed into a white T-shirt pajama top and panties that were barely visible under the hem. I sat in front of the computer, in the living room, to read for a while.

I don’t want to brag about being a better father than I am. I had been without a partner for a long time, without touching anyone, and I had found erotic stories online that I read at night. I had turned it into a quiet habit, like someone reading noir before bed.

—What are you doing, daddy?

Camila appeared behind the sofa, barefoot, her hair gathered into a crooked ponytail.

—Nothing. Reading.

—Will you let me?

And before I could close the tab, she sat on my lap like she has done since she was five. The difference was that this time she was eighteen. The difference was that she settled on me with her full weight, her thighs resting on mine, and read over my shoulder the three lines she should never have read.

It was an incest story. Father and daughter. Not mine, not ours, just one of the countless ones you find there. On the screen, the father had the daughter face down on a table, her skirt hiked up to her waist, and he was shoving his cock into her as she moaned yes, daddy, harder, daddy. Camila read those three lines twice. I felt her breathing slow against my neck.

—Daddy.

—Camila, get down. We’re having dinner.

—Daddy, let’s read it together.

Her voice was different. Not the voice of a little girl asking for help with homework. A low voice, slow, almost amused. I tried to get her up with any excuse I could think of, with tickles, with a discreet nudge, but she didn’t move. She shifted on top of me, dragging her ass slowly, back to front, two, three times, and I felt what she felt, my cock swelling under the shorts, pressed against the thin fabric of her panties, and the two of us realized the same thing at the same time.

—I noticed it with my butt before —she said, without turning around—. It felt like a shock.

This can’t be happening.

I stood up from the chair with her still on me and set her on the floor as if she weighed nothing. I told her it was time for dinner, to go to the kitchen, that I’d be there in a minute. Camila didn’t go. She grabbed my wrist with the firmness she has when she wants something and has no intention of backing down.

—Daddy, I got wet.

—Camila, please.

—Look.

And she lifted her nightdress.

***

I’m not going to justify myself. I’m not going to say it was her fault, or the fault of the men who write those stories online, or Elena’s, or chance. What happened happened because I wasn’t able to leave the living room at that moment, and for no other reason.

The panties were white, cotton, and had a dark stain in the center, round, the size of a coin. They clung to the lips of her cunt in such a way that the full slit showed through the fabric. Camila hooked her thumbs in the elastic and pulled them down to her knees before I could say anything. She stood there, the nightdress hiked up to her navel, showing me a shaved cunt, pink, shining with moisture, with the small lips half-open.

—Look how I am, daddy.

I sat her on the sofa. I told her to calm down. I told her that this was something adults did with each other, and that I was her father, and that this could not happen. Camila listened with her gaze fixed, not blinking, and when I finished speaking she took my hand and brought it to her thigh. Then she raised it herself, sliding my fingers along the inner thigh until the pad of my middle finger touched the hot wetness between her legs.

—Touch me.

I told her no. But my hand was already there, and my fingers sank without meaning to between the wet lips, and I felt the swollen clit, hard as a button, and Camila closed her eyes and arched her back against the sofa.

—Daddy, I’m grown now.

I told her yes, but not like this. My hand kept working on its own. I rubbed my thumb over her clit in slow circles, and she spread her legs all the way, without shame, grabbing her knees to give me more room.

—Daddy, I’ve been thinking about this for months. Since I saw what you read on your computer. I’ve been in my bed at Mom’s place for months, thinking about you. Fingering myself thinking about you.

I put one finger inside her. Her cunt clamped down suddenly, hot, slick, and Camila let out a gasp that was not a child’s. I put in a second finger and curled the tip, looking for that spot up top, and she began to move against my hand, forward and back, asking for more.

—Deeper, daddy. Deeper.

What came after I remember the way you remember a dream recounted half from shame. I kissed her; she didn’t kiss me. I opened her mouth with my tongue and she opened it wider, sucking my tongue like it was something else. I tore the nightdress off over her head and she stood there completely naked, with dark, small, stiff nipples, and I took them in my mouth, one and then the other, biting them until she screamed.

I knelt on the floor between her open legs and ate her cunt slowly, with my tongue flat at first, from bottom to top, licking from the opening to the clit, and then with the tip, in circles, sucking it whole, working it inside her. Camila grabbed my head with both hands and pressed it against her cunt, pushing my face, rubbing against my mouth until she came screaming daddy, daddy, daddy, her thighs trembling on either side of my head.

When I lifted my face, my chin was soaked. Camila let herself fall from the sofa to the floor between my knees, and yanked down my shorts. My cock sprang out, hard, pointed at her face. She looked at it for a second, serious, then grabbed it with her right hand and took it halfway into her mouth.

She learned fast, too fast for a girl who said she had never been with a man. She sucked me with her whole mouth, lips tight around the shaft, bobbing her head up and down, and when she pulled back she licked my balls, one first, then the other, taking them into her mouth. I asked who had taught her and she told me, with my cock resting against her cheek, that the internet. I believed her because I wanted to.

—Come in my mouth, daddy.

And she took me to the back of her throat again, moving her tongue against the head, her right hand pumping the base. I couldn’t hold back. I grabbed her ponytail and came in her mouth in long spurts, watching her swallow, watching her stick out her tongue between spurts to show me the semen running down it. She wiped herself with the back of her hand and smiled.

When it was over, I cried. I cried like I hadn’t cried since the day I signed the divorce papers. Camila hugged me with the naturalness of someone comforting a bruised knee.

—Don’t cry, daddy. This is going to be our secret.

—If your mother finds out…

—She won’t find out. I promise.

***

The following months were a long fall. Every alternate weekend, every Tuesday, we found an excuse for it to happen again. We started with the simple things and kept adding more. We slept together, she naked against my chest, my hand between her legs nearly all night. We showered together, and I soaped her all over, her breasts, her ass, her cunt, until she came against the tiles with my fingers inside her. Camila discovered things about her own body that no girl her age discovers with her father. I taught her to come on my face, sitting on my mouth. I taught her to suck me while looking me in the eyes. I taught her to masturbate in front of me with two fingers, so I could see her swollen clit properly. I recovered an appetite I thought I had forgotten.

It even started to seem normal to me. That’s the most perverse part, I suppose. Seeing her appear in my kitchen on Tuesday nights, half out of her school uniform, short pleated skirt, knee-high stockings, stopped making me uneasy and started making me happy. I heard her open the front door and my pulse would speed up like when I was a student waiting for my first girlfriend. At forty years old. With my own daughter. Many of those nights we didn’t even eat dinner. I’d sit her on the kitchen counter, open her legs, pull her panties aside and eat her cunt until she came twice in a row, clutching the cabinet so she wouldn’t fall.

One night she asked me when we were going to do the rest.

—The rest?

—You know. The rest. Fuck me, daddy. Put it all the way in.

I told her it was her decision. That whenever she wanted, no pressure, no rush. Camila laughed.

—Daddy, I’ve been waiting six months.

We did it slowly, calmly, in my room, with the small bedside lamp on and the door locked even though no one else was in the house. I undressed her slowly, biting her neck, and she undressed me on her knees, sucking my cock for a while before letting me put it in. I laid her on her back, spread her legs, and positioned myself over her, resting the head at the entrance to her cunt. She was so wet it slid inside almost without me pushing. Camila closed her eyes and let out a slow breath as I felt her open around my cock, tight, burning.

—All of it, daddy. Put it all in.

I pushed all the way in, until my balls bounced against her ass. Camila breathed hard, dug her nails into my shoulders, asked me for things I wouldn’t have known how to ask for at her age. Harder, daddy. Break me in half, daddy. Fill me with cum, daddy. I fucked her in four positions that night. On her back, with her legs over my shoulders, watching her cunt stretch around my cock every time I came out and went back in. On all fours, her head against the pillow and her ass lifted, spanking each cheek until they turned red. On top of me, riding me, bouncing up and down with her breasts jiggling in my face while I squeezed her nipples between my fingers. And finally on her side, her pressed against my chest, me entering her from behind, my hand on her clit rubbing it as I drove into her. She came three times before I did, screaming louder each time, not caring about anything. When I couldn’t hold on any longer, I asked where and she said inside, daddy, inside. I emptied myself inside her in long thrusts, each one deeper, and she dug her nails into my back and whispered in my ear yes, like that, that I was hers.

It wasn’t her first time, and I understood that right there, even though she had sworn to me it was. It didn’t matter. It mattered absolutely nothing.

Afterward, lying on our backs with our faces to the ceiling, with semen still running down her thigh, she said something that still goes around in my head.

—If Mom knew. Poor Mom.

And she laughed.

***

A month ago, Camila asked me to invite her best friend, Lucía, to spend a weekend at the house.

I said no. I told her it was dangerous, that Lucía couldn’t suspect anything, that she’d have to sleep in her room and not mine. Camila looked at me with that smile I know all too well.

—Daddy, Lucía and I tell each other everything.

—Everything?

—Everything.

I asked her whether Lucía knew. She told me not exactly. She said Lucía suspected something and that she, Camila, hadn’t denied anything. She told me Lucía had spent months fantasizing and was willing to come just to find out whether what she imagined was true.

I told her no. Camila agreed without arguing, which should have alerted me.

The following Friday, Lucía showed up at the door with a backpack and her mother behind her. Camila had invited her anyway, assuming I’d be convinced. Her mother is called Marta. Lucía is tall, blond, with that clean beauty some girls have at eighteen. Marta must be around thirty-eight, and when I saw her at my door I understood where the daughter gets it from.

—Andrés, I hope we’re not bothering you.

—Not at all, Marta. Come in.

Marta dropped Lucía off and stayed for a coffee. Camila signaled her friend to go upstairs, and they left us alone. Marta and I talked about my divorce and hers, which was about to begin, about how one manages with a teenage daughter and a life that never quite gets off the ground. When she left, she told me she would call me.

That night, in the kitchen, Camila came up behind me and whispered:

—You liked her, didn’t you?

—Camila.

—I don’t mind, daddy. But you liked her.

***

I’m not going to tell what happened that night with Lucía. It’s not that nothing happened; what had to happen happened, what Camila had planned from the moment she heard Marta’s car pull up in the drive. I carry my secret and now another one on top of it, and I don’t know how many more I’ll be able to add before something breaks.

Marta called me last week. We spent an afternoon in a discreet hotel downtown. She undressed in front of me without turning off the light, with the body of a thirty-eight-year-old woman who knows what she has, big breasts with wide areolas, broad hips, a woman’s cunt with trimmed hair. She sucked my cock on her knees on the carpet before I could say anything, looking up at me with Lucía’s eyes. Then I fucked her from on top, her riding me slowly, pressing her breasts against my face, and then again on all fours against the headboard, pulling her hair, finishing inside her with my face pressed against her back. When I was getting ready to leave, my shirt half-buttoned, she asked whether I would mind if she and Lucía spent a summer vacation with us at the house I rent on the coast.

I said yes.

Camila knows it. Lucía knows it. Marta thinks she knows everything, but she only knows the part that concerns her. I’m the only one who knows the whole thing. And as I write this, I understand that this summer is going to be long and dangerous, and that there’s going to be a second part I still don’t know how to tell.