What My Father and I Kept Silent for Five Years

This is my secret account. I opened it because I can no longer bear the weight of what I carry, and because writing it down is the only way not to lose my mind. If anyone ever finds it, let them know in advance that this is not a pretty story. It is dark, it is guilty, and it is completely mine.

My name is Carolina, though to the public I’m still the name that appears in the credits of a teen series that airs on Thursdays at nine. A bright, transparent girl, almost a symbol of adolescent purity for the families who watch her from the sofa. Inside me, however, there is another woman. One who woke very slowly, almost without permission, and whom by now I can no longer keep pretending doesn’t exist. A woman who needs her cunt filled, her hair pulled, dirty words spoken in her ear.

It all started when I was nineteen, a few months after my parents split up.

My father moved into a small apartment in a quiet neighborhood, with a balcony facing the inner courtyard and the smell of ground coffee in the air at all hours. The house where I grew up was left in an odd silence, but he never let go of the thread. Messages every morning, calls every night, dinners whenever my filming schedule allowed. He was my refuge. He had been all my life. And after the divorce that relationship became more intimate, more constant, and something inside me began to lean in a direction I still didn’t understand.

The first time I felt it was on an ordinary afternoon. I was sitting in his armchair with my legs crossed while he made coffee in the open kitchen. He was wearing a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and he smelled like that cedar cologne he has worn for as long as I can remember. When I got up to help him, his gaze lingered a second too long. It traveled down my body and back up. It was only an instant, but I felt a slow, deep heat just below my navel. I blushed for no reason.

That same night, alone in my bed, I remembered that look and froze, horrified. What kind of daughter was I? I felt dirty, sick, guilty. And yet, while I swore to myself it would never happen again, my hand was already between my legs, two fingers sunk into a soaked cunt, imagining it was him touching me. I came biting the pillow, trembling with shame.

But it happened. Again and again.

As the months went by, the sensations became more frequent and more vivid. I started noticing things that had never existed for me before. The way his forearm tensed when he hugged me. The warmth of his chest against my cheek. The bulge that sometimes showed in his pants when he crossed his legs in front of me, and that I would look at out of the corner of my eye with my stomach tight. The deep tone he used when he called me “princess,” a word that suddenly no longer sounded innocent. Every hug lasted a second longer. Every goodbye left my skin tingling, as if his hands were still on me.

And then jealousy appeared.

Jealousy I could hardly believe myself. When he casually mentioned that he had gone out to dinner with some woman, my stomach clenched. I imagined that stranger sucking his cock, riding him, taking into her body what I had secretly wanted for years, and something dark and possessive rose up inside me. He’s mine, I thought, and I hated myself for thinking it. I knew many daughters feel that silent possessiveness toward their father, that ancient instinct of “no one else should have him.” In me that instinct was dense, shameless, almost obscene. It made me feel selfish, perverse, and at the same time terribly aroused.

Little by little I discovered my own nature.

Between twenty and twenty-one I started dressing differently just to see him. It wasn’t a plan. It was something older than calculation. I chose miniskirts that clung to my hips and barely covered half my thigh. Thin black stockings, almost transparent, that shone under the light and traced the curve of my legs with every step. Soft silk blouses that clung to my tits and hinted at the shadow of my nipples when the temperature dropped. Tiny panties, sometimes none at all. Before going out I would look at myself in the mirror and feel a tingling between my legs imagining his gaze sliding down over me, imagining his cock hardening inside his pants with no way for him to stop it.

I sent him “innocent” photos.

One afternoon, from the set dressing room: me standing in front of the full-length mirror, the skirt lifted just a little by the pose, the stockings contrasting with my skin.

His reply came right away: “You’re very beautiful today, princess. That skirt looks… different on you.”

I answered with my heart pounding in my throat: “Different how?”

He took a while. When he replied, he only wrote: “It makes you look… dangerous.”

That word sank its claws into me somewhere and stayed there. I got slightly wet just reading it. I felt shame and at the same time a new, powerful sensation, as if inside me there were a hungry woman who enjoyed being looked at, desired, even by someone who should not look at her that way. A part of me that wanted to provoke, that wanted to be fucked, that wanted to give herself over completely. I called her “my dark side.” She scared me and fascinated me at the same time.

The messages continued along that thin line for years. I would send a photo with the skirt a little higher. He would answer carefully, but with more and more weight in every sentence: “Princess, be careful with those photos. Not all men know how to control themselves.”

Me: “And you do?”

Him: “With you… I’m trying.”

That tension built up like a slow storm. I turned twenty-two, twenty-three, and every time we saw each other the atmosphere felt heavier. The hugs lasted forever. His hands stayed a second longer at my waist, another second longer at the base of my back, brushing the curve of my ass over the fabric. I went home with his scent clinging to my clothes and slept sunk into that fabric, too afraid to wash it, fingering myself to orgasm with his name between my teeth.

***

Until the night of my twenty-fourth birthday.

I asked him to make it just the two of us. A dinner at his apartment, no one else, no coworkers or cousins or production meetings. I got ready with a surgeon’s patience. Tiny black miniskirt. Thigh-high stockings with discreet lace garters, the kind you can’t see unless someone decides to look very closely. White silk blouse that, under the warm light in the living room, turned just translucent enough. Underneath, nothing. No panties, no bra. My nipples hardened against the silk just from thinking about the door opening.

When he opened the door and saw me, his gaze dropped to my legs, climbed up my hips, lingered on my chest, and stopped at my eyes. I saw the conflict. I saw the desire. And I saw, for the first time with clarity, the same fear I had carried since I was nineteen. I also saw him swallow, saw the front of his pants tighten.

We ate slowly. The red wine loosened our tongues. We talked about work, the divorce, the last time either of us had truly been accompanied. At one point the silence became so thick it could almost be touched. I stood up and walked over to him. I didn’t sit on his lap. I only stood in front of his chair, trembling.

—Dad —I whispered, and the word sounded different that night—. There’s something I’ve felt since I was nineteen and I can’t keep pretending it doesn’t exist.

He stood up slowly. He took my face in both hands. His thumbs stroked my cheeks as if he were measuring whether the sentence was worth the damnation. I saw in his eyes the same moral struggle I had fought for five years: guilt, love, forbidden desire, fear of breaking everything. And then I saw that struggle break.

He kissed me.

It was a slow kiss at first, shaky, almost asking forgiveness. Then his tongue entered my mouth with years of hunger, searching for me, sucking on my lips, biting me until I moaned. His hands moved down my back, brushed the miniskirt, lifted the fabric carefully until they touched bare skin above my stockings. When his fingers discovered I wasn’t wearing panties, he went still for a second.

—Carolina… —he murmured against my mouth, voice rough—. You’re soaked.

—For five years, Dad —I answered, trembling—. For five years I’ve been like this for you.

He groaned as if I had driven a knife into him. His hand slid down my stomach, slipped between my thighs, two fingers forcing their way into my wet cunt with no patience at all. He drove them in to the hilt. I clung to his neck so I wouldn’t fall.

—Look at you, princess —he whispered in my ear, moving his fingers inside me with a slow, wicked rhythm—. Look at that cunt you’ve got. This whole thing is for me, isn’t it?

—All yours, Dad… all yours —I panted, moving against his hand, wanting more.

His thumb found my clit and started circling it tightly while his fingers fucked me standing there, in the middle of the dining room, with the wineglass still on the table. I came in less than two minutes. A brutal, silent orgasm that folded me against his chest while my cunt squeezed his fingers and soaked his palm.

Still trembling, he took me to the bedroom.

He undressed me piece by piece, as if unwrapping something sacred and forbidden at the same time. First the blouse, letting the silk slide off my shoulders. My tits were left bare, small, with nipples so hard he brushed one with his lips and made me moan. He stayed there, sucking them one after the other, biting them just enough to arch my back. Then the miniskirt, which fell to the floor with an almost inaudible sound. He left me only the stockings and garters.

—Don’t take them off —he said when I reached to lower them—. Like that. I want to see you like that.

He knelt in front of me. He spread my legs with both hands and buried his face in my cunt without ceremony. His tongue was broad, hot, tireless. He licked me from bottom to top, pausing on my clit to suck it with his lips, to take it into his mouth and tug gently. Then he went back down, pushed his tongue inside, pulled it out, came back up again. His hands grabbed my ass, squeezed my cheeks, pulled me closer to his mouth.

—Dad… Dad… I’m going to fall… —I begged, my legs shaking.

He pushed me back onto the bed without stopping eating me out. He opened my legs wider, hooked my thighs over his shoulders and kept going, now with two fingers inside me, moving in a slow hook, searching for that exact spot that made me scream. I came again against his mouth, pushing his face with my hips, soaking his chin, unable to stop the spasms.

When he lifted his head, his lips were shining and he wore a dark smile I had never seen on him before.

—I’m not done with you yet, princess.

He took off his clothes unhurriedly. The shirt, the belt, the pants. When he pulled down his boxers, my throat went dry. His cock was thick, long, fully hard, a vein standing out underneath and the head shining with pre-cum. I stared at it like an idiot, mouth open.

I knelt on the bed and moved closer. I took it in my hand, surprised by the heat and the weight. I looked him in the eyes and took him into my mouth. He groaned loudly, his hands sinking into my hair. I started slowly, sucking the tip, licking the vein, taking him as far down as I could and coming back up while my hand matched the motion. He grabbed my hair harder, setting the rhythm, driving his cock into my mouth until I felt the tip hit the back of my throat.

—Like that, my love… like that… suck it all… —he panted, looking down at me—. Five years imagining you like this, princess… five years…

I sucked his cock with years’ worth of hunger, saliva dripping down my chin, tears in my eyes every time he shoved it all the way down my throat. I licked his balls, ran my tongue along the full length of him, took him all the way again. I felt his whole body tense and had to let him go before he came.

—Inside, Dad —I whispered, lying on my back, spreading my legs for him—. I want you to come inside me.

He settled over me. I felt the hot tip brush my entrance, pressing lightly. He looked into my eyes one last time, as if asking for permission and forgiveness in the same gesture.

He entered centimeter by centimeter. Very slowly. He wanted me to feel every part of him. My cunt welcomed him with a wetness I had never had before, squeezing him, wanting to memorize him. He sank all the way in and stayed there, still, breathing against my neck.

—God… you’re so tight, princess… —he murmured—. You’re perfect… you’re mine…

—Yours, Dad —I answered, my voice broken—. Fuck me. Fuck your daughter.

Something in him broke completely at that phrase. He began to move with a deep, elegant rhythm at first, controlled, each thrust coming almost all the way out before filling me again. Then he lost control. He pounded me harder and faster and faster, burying his cock to the hilt, pulling almost all the way out, then slamming back in. The wet sound of our bodies colliding filled the room. My tits bounced with every thrust. My nails dug into his back, marking him.

—Dad… Dad… like that… don’t stop… —I moaned, unable to keep quiet.

He flipped me over in one sharp motion. He put me on all fours at the edge of the bed. He grabbed my hips and drove back in with one stroke. The scream I let out didn’t even sound like mine. He was fucking me from behind with a force I didn’t know he had, spanking me until my skin burned, pulling my hair to bring my ear close to his mouth.

—Is this what you wanted, princess? —he growled in my ear while he rammed his cock into me to the hilt—. For your father to fuck you like this? Five years getting me hot for this?

—Yes, Dad… yes… more… harder… —I begged, pushing my ass back against him so he could go deeper.

He grabbed the back of my neck and pressed my face into the mattress, leaving my ass lifted for him. He fucked me with brutal thrusts, each one shaking my entire body. With one hand he pulled my hair, with the other he squeezed a tit. I felt his wet thumb searching for my asshole and pressing lightly, toying with the idea of slipping it in. I came there, face in the pillow and his cock buried to the hilt in my pussy, screaming his name in a muffled howl, my whole body trembling and my legs giving out.

Still convulsing, he turned me over again. He wanted me facing him. He wanted to see my face when he came.

—Look at me —he ordered, driving into me again—. Look me in the eyes when I come inside you.

I looked at him, makeup smeared, mouth open, panting. He moved with shorter and shorter, faster and faster, deeper and deeper thrusts. I felt his cock swell inside me. I felt the exact moment he lost control.

—Inside, Dad, give me all of it… —I whispered, closing my legs around his hips so he couldn’t pull out.

He growled like an animal and came. I felt his heat spilling inside me in deep waves, shot after shot, filling me completely. His cock throbbed inside my cunt as he emptied himself, and I came again with him, squeezing him, milking him, wanting to keep every drop. I screamed his name against his shoulder, trembling, crying from pleasure and guilt at the same time, my face soaked.

Afterward we stayed locked in silence, holding each other. His hand stroked my hair. He was still inside me, pulsing faintly, still hard, his semen slowly leaking out around the edges and wetting us both. Neither of us spoke for a long time. We only breathed together, knowing nothing would ever be the same again.

***

Now I’m writing this with my body still sensitive, my skin marked by his fingers, the imprint of a hand drawn on my right ass cheek, the stockings tangled on the floor of his room, and his semen still trickling between my thighs. Tomorrow I have to shoot. Tomorrow I’ll have to put on that pastel dress from the series again and smile as if nothing happened, with my cunt swollen and burning beneath the white underwear from the wardrobe. Tomorrow I’ll be the bright girl on screen again.

I discovered that inside me there is a woman who desires with a force that frightens me. A woman who gets turned on by the forbidden, who enjoys giving herself over without reservations, who finds pleasure in being looked at, touched, and fucked by the one person who should never have touched her. A woman born from five years of love, guilt, and restrained desire.

I don’t know if what happened tonight is wrong.

I only know it felt natural.

And that, despite all the guilt burning inside me, I want to feel his cock inside me again. Tonight. Tomorrow. Always.