Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 Title: Self Immolation
by: Ophelia's Fever

   2016
codes: D,g inc.  nc ped
Disclaimer: This is a literary work intended for adult (18+) audiences.
By reading my story you consent to the understanding that this is a work of
fiction for adults hopefully rendered well enough so that you may have a
very good fap.

   Summary: This is the true story of the first molestation I encountered
by my Father.

   *********************************

   I was exactly five years old.  That is one detail that for some reason
stayed put.  Later, I understood that this had to be before my step father
and mother married, which they did soon after I turned six but he had been
around since I was two, or three, and was the only Father I knew.  In fact,
I forgot that he wasn't my Father in the way small children can do and
called him Daddy anyway.

   I have, I can feel it, more, many more memories locked inside of me like
koi fish at the bottom of the pond; you can sense their presence but the
golden glimmer is locked away.  This one was also locked away.  I had
forgotten it like the others until I was directly asked by a therapist when
I was 12 one day,

   "Were you molested, Ophelia?" she asked, hawkish and hawk like, diving
for my fish.  But I evaded, disgusted.

   "No.  What are you talking about?" I asked feeling put upon, on the run.
I did not remember a thing and in that fashion of proud, disgusted,
untrusting 12 year olds, I denied.  But at some point that night, this
first particular memory rose to the surface and I thought to myself, oh
yes, how could I forget?  This memory being the genesis of playing Doctor,
cornering kids my age and wanting to play with them sexually, coercing some
even.  This is the memory I recount for you now.

   I remember it was a hot night.  My Mom, Dad and I were at a friend's
house to party.  My parents were all military people and so all the guys
and their girlfriends and wives partied hard on the weekends.  I remember
running around and playing with all the different men around, of getting
their beers for them, of being tickled.  But this particular night, I was
laid down to sleep in one of the men's bedrooms but I was fussy and cranky.
I was hot even in the little nightgown I wore and uncomfortable in another
bed, a bed that smelled like a grown man.  The child inside knew this was
not where she belonged.

   After my Mom trying to calm me down she called in my Dad to hopefully,
help me sleep.  I remember him telling her that she could go, that he would
`take care of it'.  Did I notice her hesitation?  I did not want him there.
I could not manipulate him as well as my Mom.  I was scared of him.  He was
so large and strict.  How was he going to possibly help me go to sleep?

   I remember laying on the waterbed, face turned away from him, staring at
the digital clock.  The red glow of those numbers are etched into my mind,
searing into my memory.  I refused to look at him, to see what he was
doing. I felt the waterbed dip as he got on it, I felt his presence
breathing quietly next to me.  I knew he was drunk.

   I heard the clank of him unbuckling his belt, the slow zip of his pants.
I heard rustling, fumbling and in that soft confusion, it was like a nether
state of being where all normal rules and responses do not apply.  Daddy
grabbed my hand, the one clenched on my chest, and gently glided it to his
dick.

   "Shhhh...  Daddy is here.  See, can you feel it?  That is Daddy, here
for you honey." he said, while forcing my hand, my small little hand, to
wrap around his shaft, to pump it.  His large hand over mine, guiding me,
instructing me, filling me with fear, and curiosity, and shame, and
secrets.

   First, I remember how soft it was, so soft!  Like the cheek of a kitten
or the satin on my dress, I was somehow very surprised by that.  I was also
surprised that he had hair down there, while I was looking away, I did peek
at it, this large thing coming from his pants, so large and dominant but
also, in congruently soft.  I still did not understand how it was used, or
what it was really for.  I only knew that men had them and it made them
feel good.

   "Do you like that, honey?  Do you like touching it?" Daddy kept asking
but I had no answer, I was riveted by his desire in the way you are in
another country, you get the gist but are unable to really join in, it is
not yet your language; you are a tourist to this land.

   Daddy increased the pace on my hand and his, I was too terrified to
move, or say a word or really engage, the lights were off except for the
glow of the clock.  It was at that time that the door opened, spilling
light from its square pattern, the loud music masking now throbbing in the
room.  It was a friend of my Daddy's, in fact we were in his room, on his
bed.

   "What are you doing?" Paul said, the outline of his body casting a
shadow in the doorway.  I do not remember what they said together, but I do
know this-he saw everything, Daddy's cock out, my hand on it, his hand
gliding it.  I was pleading for him to silently intervene, to get me away
from the situation.  Paul, who had chased me, and tickled me, and let me
yank on his beard.  Paul who was so forbearing where my Daddy was not.

   But, Paul was weaving, also drunk.  I saw that, too.  I saw his
hesitation, just like my Mom, but also like her, he closed the door.  He
walked away.  But he saw, he knew, my "uncle" Paul walked away.

   Paul's walking away led some kind of consent to Daddy's desire of me. 
Daddy grabbed my little hand with greater further, moving it up and down
the shaft of his cock, gaining speed and heat.  I felt a wetness, shocked,
I drew back but Daddy's grip was firm.  "Shhh, baby, it is alright, it is
alright." He kept saying, his voice beginning to falter, his grip beginning
to hurt my hand, his dick so hot, so soft, so hard, too under my hand. 
And, suddenly, I felt a spasm and heard a groan, and felt something ooze
out over my hand and everywhere, it was hot and sticky, I did not like it.

   Daddy let go of my hand on his cock, and forced my hands to my lips. 
"Taste it, Ophelia." he said, and I poked my tongue out.  It was gross, I
made a face and he laughed.  He never laughed, I could never make him laugh
but this final humiliation of his daughter brought it forth.

   After that the screen closes, I feel there is more, but I cannot
remember more about this instance.  Daddy taught me that my role, that the
role of every female, is to please males.  Daddy showed me that other's
would not intervene from this lesson.  One of many.  Perhaps I slept. 
Perhaps I cleaned his cock clean.  I do not know.

   What I do know is that humiliation, eroticism, control, innocence, power
are now so bound up tight in my own map of sex that I crave it, I want it.
I just want to make Daddy laugh.  I just want to make Daddy cum.

   *****************************
Feedback: opheliasfever (at) gmail.com