All characters, places, and events herein are fictional, and depicted to be of legal age of consent. Any resemblance to actual people, places or events is coincidental. The actions and events in this story should not be construed to mean approval or promotion of those actions in real-life situations by the author or staff of Literotica.com.
_________________________
Feeling the bed sink in places around me, I don't even remember what my life was like before. Was there a time before this? I've just become a mass of sensations. Reactions. Moans and whimpering.
My dad grips my neck possessively as I lay facedown; he holds me firmly, his large thumb under my chin as though controlling a snake. But I'd never bite. I was trained out of that impulse long ago, I think? Time doesn't really have much meaning anymore. Just stages of submission. His grip tightens as he lowers himself along my back. My legs are already splayed. I'm already wet. Well trained and helpless. I never resist anymore.
I lay still and softly breathe in the scent of his cologne. Against my will, I find myself intoxicated by it. Sweet and slightly fruity, but still masculine. My mind drifts as I inhale that scent intermingling with the smell of sex that is always vaguely around us when we're together. He releases my neck and pulls my hair back, turning my head more so he can see the side of my face. I'm back from my thoughts. He asks where I went. Where had his little girl gone to? Wasn't she excited for the "something new" he'd mentioned a moment ago? I hadn't heard him speak. I can't remember the last time I was expected to respond to anything other than dirty talk while impaled by my father's relentless cock.
He coached me on what he liked to hear. When he asked what good girls do, I would tell him that they cum for daddy. When he told me he was going to fill my tight little pussy with his seed, I would beg him to pump it deep. The dialogue wasn't fixed, but the thread of expectation was there. I am shocked out of my thoughts by my dad's voice so close to my ear that if he wasn't whispering, I would surely cry out in pain.
"So, are you excited to finally, actually, do it?" my dad asks. I panic slightly when I realize I have no idea what it is I'm finally going to do and the look on my face must broadcast my fear; I crane my neck to try and glimpse his face from my prone position and see the looming figure of my naked father. He sits back slightly and his face softens a little from his normal stern expression. I still keep my hands spread up and towards the top corners of the bed -- not tied in place, but held there by the invisible bonds of induced submission.
I try to soften the blow that I hadn't paid attention to him by phrasing my question sweetly, "I'm sorry daddy. I think I was so surprised -- stunned, even -- that my mind just went blank and now all I know is that my pussy aches for you." The number of times I've made similar excuses, with similar wording, is probably astounding. But I can't remember how many times I've done it before. Only that it seems like an easy lie. From moment to moment, I am lost inside my own mind. To my dad, I'm a sexual object. Something he owns. Possessions don't have their own minds. I hide my thoughts and I hide amongst my thoughts.