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My discord answered a poll that I had put up and wanted me to talk about this. This time frame, and moments from then, in my life. I recently had a wet dream about it earlier in the week and I admitted it to them. I opened up the door for this. It's a difficult thing to talk about. Because if I'm to write about it from my point of view and the feelings I had back then, it will sound very... pedophilic. Like I support the actions that were taken by my father. That I approved of and encouraged them, and when added to the history of my writing, sometimes it feels... problematic. But I can't lie either. There's a reason why so many of us are damaged, conflicted, and feel guilty.
If I was writing from my perspective now, I could easily talk about how he took advantage of me. How he manipulated, groomed, and abused me. I could rant about how he later abandoned me and the harm that did to me. How he altered the course of my life forever. I could blame it all on him. I could scream, cry, and say that it was all his fault. It would be so much easier to do that.
But to write about my feelings then? How I saw things, felt them, and what I wanted? Again, there is no way to write it without sounding like I'm all in for the pedophile lifestyle. But this will be an honest accounting of my feelings at the time. They may have been manipulated, groomed, and ones I should not have had. That doesn't mean I didn't have them. If you can't accept that, please stop reading now. If you can, let's go onward.
I've said it before, but I don't remember when my dad started with me. When the first act of molestation began. In my earliest memories, at four or five years old, it was already a common occurrence. I already knew that it was a secret, special time. We didn't discuss it with others. We never told Mommy about the things we did when she was away. I don't remember having any issues with that. My mom was always cold to me. I don't have a single memory of her where she felt loving and accepting of me. To her, I could never be good enough. I was never good enough. It's been suggested and I've wondered before if she knew what was going on between my dad and me. If she either had ideas or was fully aware of what was going on and allowed it. I doubt it because she was the boss of the house, but it's possible. Maybe that's why she hated me. Because I was the girl that Daddy wanted, not her. It's a nice thought. One that makes her actions towards me more understandable. But it's bullshit. She doesn't get to be a victim as well in my story. Not when she ran the house. Not after the things she did to me. She never loved me. Not even then.
My dad did though. God, did he. The second mom left the house, it was like everything changed. The meany butt was gone and we could be happy and loud and watch whatever we wanted. And we did. Not porn. Just cartoons as we would cuddle on the couch or in the bed. Naked. Always naked if it was our special time. My dad would pull me tight and I could feel his love. The way he kissed me changed. He'd give me slow, lingering kisses on my cheeks, neck, and mouth. His large arms and hands would hold me tight. Our skin felt like fire together. A good warm bonfire that kept the chill away. His fingers always wandered along my body. They would stroke my soft skin, tease my tender little nipples, tugging them, and they'd often explore my cunny and ass. Mostly my cunny. He made me feel so good, so squirmy, and so excited even at five years old. I was eager for the little trembles and shudders he'd give me. He could play me like a violin and I fucking loved it. I never felt more special during those times. I never wanted them to end.
It wasn't only touching though. It wasn't only his fingers exploring and his mouth kissing. I would kiss him back, clumsily perhaps, but no less eager. I loved the taste of his mouth. I know now it often had a taste of alcohol on his tongue and his lips. Liquid courage, perhaps? I don't know now and I didn't care then. I just know we would laugh and giggle. My mouth would kiss his neck and he loved my little five-year-old lips playfully biting and sucking on his hairy nipples. But most of all, he loved having my head in his lap, bobbing up and down on his cock.
I wasn't doing anything impossible at the time. I couldn't deepthroat him nor could I give a flawless handy. But, I could take the tip in my mouth as his hips thrust, my small fingers wrapped around and holding a giant pole, stroking it up and down. And when he came, he'd aim at the top of my mouth, not down my throat. That way my mouth would fill with his creamy love, but not my gullet. Some of it would often spill out over my lips and onto my tiny flat chest, dripping down my body. But the rest I would show to him and swallow and he would praise me so much for it. I felt like the best little girl in the world when I ate his cum. I was his five-year-old pedo princess porn star and I didn't even know it.
We didn't only kiss and touch one another. Starting sometime in kindergarten onward, my dad started doing more. The beginning would often be the same, but instead of his eager little thrusts and explosions of white in my mouth, he would do things differently. He'd lay me out on the bed or the couch or floor, naked and spread wide for him. My dad, my daddy, my father, my lover. He'd lower his head down between my slender thighs and get me wet. Maybe he got me wetter. I don't know if I was juicy back then like I am now. I think that came later. Regardless, it felt so good with his giant frame over me, his tongue lapping away at my soft little folds. Sometimes, I had small shudders during that, clinging to him as my little body trembled. God, I loved him so much then.
Once I was ready, he'd take his cock and push it inside my wet, eager little cunny. My lips would be bright pink and swollen and would feel so hot and cool at the same. He wouldn't push all the way, probably not even halfway in at that time, but his tip would enter my cunny, and as he thrust, maybe a bit more would go inside. He'd kiss me, his tongue in my five-year-old mouth, and he'd make me feel like I was the only person in the world. Sometimes, he got too eager, and it hurt a bit, but that was rare. Usually, it just felt like love to me. No, fuck that. It was love to me. I felt loved, wanted, adored, and it felt right and good. And when he shuddered, when I felt his warmth fill me between my legs, sometimes that alone would make me quiver. It was wonderful.
Often, that was the end of it. We'd cuddle afterward, with my dad's arms holding me against his belly as drool and cum dried on me. He liked fingering my cunny when it was full of his white. It would get hard for me to focus on the show as his finger spread the cum around my soft, well-loved lips. Sometimes, he'd have me suck his finger clean. We would finish watching our shows like that, only having another round of fun if we had the time or if he got hard again. I'd often be tired by the end of our sessions. Ready to take a nap from all the little shudders. If he thrust in my slender frame a lot, that would sometimes leave me sore and exhausted as well. We'd get in the shower, and he'd wash me very well, cleaning every nook and cranny. The attention he gave me was the first drug I was ever addicted to. The first of many. Then, by the time mom got home, I'd be in a nightgown, playing by myself, napping, or watching TV while he did normal dad things. It was simply our secret, and I wouldn't have changed it for the world.
He never really varied the routine, which was comforting in its own way. He never tried me to do more extreme or new acts. Just loving, tender makeout sessions, with touches and kisses on all our body parts. By the time I was eight, I was a fantastic cocksucker, or at least that's what he told me. I could take much of him in my mouth easily, and always eagerly. I loved how my tongue and little kisses could make him shake, and I sometimes got on top of him instead of below him. I would ride my lover, though not like I ride men today. Back then, it was more of a rocking motion, and he never thrust deeply. By then, it was usually about half of his cock or so, sometimes more or less, buried in me. It felt so good. If he'd asked me to disappear with him and never see my mom again, I would have done it without a second thought. He came in my cunny less and less, and more in my mouth or on my belly, before feeding me his cum. I didn't understand then that he had started having concerns about pregnancy. We never spoke of such things. There was no talk of turning me into a mommy. If he had, I would have probably embraced it.
Near the end, I started becoming hypersexual, or the early beginnings of it, at least. Any time I got stressed, I would touch myself. When my anxiety attacks started, my hands would disappear between my legs. No one ever linked that to a different cause, however. Unless my mom did. Unless that was the reason one day came when we made love for the last time. When he came on my belly and kissed my cum filled lips for the last time. I don't know. If she had done so and I'd have known, I would have hated her for it. I kinda would now, I think. One day came, and there was no more special time between us. No explanations. One day, my father was my lover, and the next, he wasn't and would never be again. And in my home, I would be alone, unwanted. Anxieties and dark thoughts would surge. I would touch myself and cry and try to feel those shudders again. I would have no one again until I was 12. When I found and was found by the older men online. They'd finish the education my father started. They'd save me from my dark thoughts. And they'd make sure that I was never alone again. And to them, thank you. I love you all.