Including Me Ch. 02

And when he came home late we'd have sex, if I was asleep he'd wake me up, no asking or checking to see if I was alright, he'd turn me whatever way he liked and use me as he pleased. If I were awake I'd gauge him upon his entrance, would he like me to get him a drink, would he like me to suck on him, would he like to bend me over and fuck my brains out. There would be sex at the end but it was his decision how things got there. In any case I got a cunt full of cum every time he came home.

I soon caught on that on the nights he didn't come home he had probably found some tramp and gone somewhere with her, perhaps to her place. One time he came home in the morning after being out all night and pushed me onto my knees. When I fished his cock out, it clearly had lipstick around the base. The horny bastard had just been fellated by whatever slut he'd spent the night with, then come straight home, unwashed, and expected the same of me.

Not that I was going to refuse though. I took his half-hard member in my mouth straight to the hilt, tasting her on my tongue and licked around the base washing her off of him before sucking back all the way to the head, swirling my tongue around as he grew fully and his bulbous head unsheathed from his foreskin, feeding me messy cum remnants that mixed with my saliva and got swallowed right down. My loins did a somersault at that and I wasn't clear whether I liked being a whore in general or if it was specifically degrading myself in this way for my father that was decimating my inhibitions. In any case it was the first of many times that his indiscretions were made apparent and I never once made any comment or failed to service him in any manner he specified.

My period came and went after that first fortnight or so and it didn't slow him down any. Since my hymen was no longer an issue I'd decided to get tampons instead of sanitary towels for the first time. One night he came in and I was woken up by the sensation of my tampon being pulled out. He either didn't notice the heavy flow of blood or just as likely didn't care. I was horny as hell and certainly wasn't going to draw attention to it. After he'd had his fill of me and fallen asleep, I popped in a fresh tampon and crawled next to him to get back to sleep myself.

A couple of nights later the flow had eased but I had a smashing headache, and no sex drive. Yet, when he came home I was resolute in my determination to continue to pleasure him despite the unpleasantness of my situation. I could do little more than lie and grimace as he fucked me from behind with my face buried in a pillow. I did not enjoy that night, but after the fact I nonetheless felt a grim satisfaction at having forced myself be used by him.

I really had no idea how he managed to make a living, he certainly didn't appear to have any kind of normal job. I never asked where he was going or what he was doing. I didn't ask him for money, and when I told him we were short of some essentials he'd toss a few notes at me, sometimes just enough, occasionally more than enough. I'd save the extra for other bits I didn't want to mention, like sanitary products, make up. Pregnancy tests when the time came. I carefully kept the meagre remainder hidden and he showed no interest in the drawers I'd sequestered once I'd fetched my travel suitcase with my few clothes and possessions from the cheap room I'd booked into the day I went to find him.

Nor had we ever discussed the living arrangements, they'd just happened and I suppose it must have been convenient to him to have a live in slut that did as she was told and didn't ask questions. I felt like that was how his life was, just working with whatever happened around him, going with what stuck and the hell with what didn't. I didn't consider much that he might just as easily toss me out and I didn't have a plan for how to look after myself if he did. I did as he did, day by day. I made myself available to him, I tidied and sometimes cleaned, I was low maintenance and that seemed to work.

I suppose it had to happen in the end, and one night around a month after I'd been there I woke up to the sound of fucking. His place had a separate bathroom and kitchen as well as a small hall, then the single room that served as living room and bedroom where I now lay. The sound was coming from the kitchen and he'd brought home some bimbo and was banging her in there. Already well into things judging by the grunts he emitted and the short, breathy moans from the bitch he was slaking his lust on.

I did nothing but accepted the situation. It was like, he's allowed to do as he pleases, I didn't see that I had any authority in the matter. He was home, under whatever circumstances, and I liked that at least. I lay still and I listened. Sounds of them moving around or changing position once or twice, then she was on her knees perhaps, taking him in her throat, anyway she seemed to gag a few times.

I hadn't realised I'd drifted off again, only the next thing I knew he'd brought the bitch in and thrown her next to me on the bed. It was dark, the light from the hall didn't show up much of the detail of her features as I looked out of the corners of slitted eyes at them, but she must have been closer to my father's age than mine. She had a decent figure, and her thin dress was bunched at her waist, pulled down off her chest and up from her hips. If she'd been wearing underwear to start with they were probably on the kitchen floor and her shoes had been thrown off somewhere along the line too. Her platinum blonde locks tumbled about the pillow and it smelled like they'd both been drinking heavily.

She gave no indication as to whether she'd even noticed me as my father climbed on top of her and reinserted himself. It was a new experience to be able to watch him in action without getting attention myself and I found myself rubbing at my clit to cope with an increasing frustration. Was he going to cum in her? I wanted his cum, that was the only thing. If he was fucking other women and even cumming inside them it didn't matter to me, only if his cum was going right here and now I wanted it to be in my pussy.

He was really going at it now and the tramp was getting properly screwed with that big, rigid pole that ruled my days and nights, that I lived my life to satisfy. She was loud when she came and he relented none, sawing in and out through her climax, indifferent to her rabid gibbering. Steadily he continued and she hung on, I could see her get over her orgasm and resume her humping back at him and maybe she'd have had another peak but just as she was starting to mewl again he stopped in that familiar fashion, crushing her like he crushed me, jamming himself deeply into her, into us. Squeezing against her mound forcefully and when he let go his breath I knew he was streaming his hot creamy jism deep into her body.

Sure, I was jealous, after all I wanted it in me, but maybe I was also just hot at watching my father have sex, I'm not sure really but either way I was seriously wet. He held himself there awhile, sheathed in her, before pulling himself out and rolling off to lie in between us. As usual he was asleep in no time, I couldn't tell if she was awake or asleep but I squeezed my legs and lay still for a long while, until finally my own rest came.

I woke up in the morning and he was on me, fingers in me, hand in my hair positioning me. With little ceremony he was inside me and getting to work fast and it was a welcome morning screw that scratched the itch that had seemed to haunt my dreams. The blonde was still there across the bed and still I didn't know whether she was awake or asleep and I absolutely did not care. My father was fucking me and we could have had a room full of sluts and it wouldn't matter to me.

I fucked back at him and scratched and squealed and he probably wasn't gonna take long and I cursed him wasting cum in that tramp when my pussy was inches away and I was going to have it this morning, not because I demanded it or deserved it but because he chose to put it in me. And that's just what he did and then he rolled off me and went back to sleep and she and I lay either side of him, two whores filled with his cum, a pair of worthless tramps.

Was she on the pill? Did he think I was on the pill? I'd never seen a condom packet in his home or about his person. He seemed to consider it my problem, our problem. Not his problem, and I wondered how many other children he had out there, how he'd cope with being chased for child payments or whatever.

After a time I heard stirrings and she was getting up and I watched her through slitted eyes, feigning sleep. She was hot, I had to admit, her mussed blonde locks swinging about her back and shoulders above a trim waist. She worked out, I guessed. And I noticed the ring on her finger, showing off her marital status. Was that it, did he go for married women that would keep their infidelity quiet? Sneak an abortion, otherwise give birth to a child that their husband would believe to be his own?

It was what had happened to my mother. My unfaithful whore of a mother. She'd had an affair with this man behind my Dad's back. My Dad, her husband that believed that he'd finally knocked her up, that I was his and who raised me as such. He was a good guy, I'd grown up thinking, he looked after us well and when lately I'd discovered my mother's indiscretion and the truth of my parentage it had been a shock to my system, and everything had been sent into a spiral, my entire world had been thrown into disarray and come back together all jumbled up and things not connecting together.

Life had been normal enough before then. I was smart enough, I had friends, I was going to get qualified and do have a career. I didn't get along so bad with my parents, I didn't row with them like some friends I knew. I was a little shy maybe, I hadn't really dated or anything. Perhaps I was a bit plain and I'd worked really hard at my clothing, makeup and demeanour these last couple of years to try to help me be more confident when I left home.

I'd never gotten that far though. The discovery that my Dad wasn't my biological father had been enough on its own; the manner in which I found out was far worse, and the circumstances around how I had been conceived, not to mention the graphic detail around it. At first it had been a complete shock. Before I was really coming to terms with it Dad found out and it was at least partly my fault he had. If I had been devastated then imagine how he must have felt. He'd always wanted a son and my mother never did get pregnant a second time. But he had me and that was something. We weren't so close as all that or anything but, I was his kid right?

So then it turned out I wasn't, and when it became clear that my mother had this double life thing going on with my father for all those years, it hit him really hard. He just shut down basically. He was gone well before he actually left, and on top of feeling guilty about him finding the stuff on the computer now I felt abandoned by him too. We'd both been betrayed, hadn't we? He was the only Dad I'd ever known. He should be there for me shouldn't he?

He wasn't there for me and I'm not sure what he told my mother but there wasn't any big fight that I saw. There wasn't any reaction at all from her, he packed up and left, first emotionally and then physically, and she just carried on living life. I felt increasingly desperate as the days and weeks went on, and I had nobody to show it to. I didn't dare talk to my mother and of the couple of close friends I had growing up that I might possibly have confided in one was going through a crippling family breakup of their own and the other, well we'd grown apart these last years and maybe we weren't that close any more.

I mean I did talk to them both and there was some solidarity there, but I couldn't bring myself to tell them the whole, unbelievable story behind what had caused it. I carried it however best I could. I found it impossible to focus on future plans and I didn't progress with the required administrative work to secure a higher education course. All was dark, meaningless. Empty. Alone.

I read the correspondence I had discovered repeatedly, piecing together how things had happened. Some things were more clear, my mother had met this man after years of marriage to my Dad and had engaged in a one sided affair, ultimately resulting in her falling pregnant with me. She'd pursued the relationship and refused to abort. She'd offered to leave her husband for my father, when he refused she'd continued her fully sexual involvement with him right up to the point where she was on the verge of labour. From start to finish he'd taken full advantage of her interest and used her first as a married slut, then as a married slut carrying his child.

And even then the affair continued, only after I was born my mother had started to take the pill. I guess one baby by him was enough, and she had her hands full with the lie to my Dad that I was his. But although the frequency was reduced she continued the relationship for many years. She'd had me and then later he'd moved away to another town, but even still then she went.

The mood of her words to him changed over time, reflecting the changing nature of their relationship. Gone were the declarations of love and commitment to him. No more offers to leave her husband, and on several occasions even me, to be with him. She had accepted her place, a worthless slut for his cock, as was made explicit in many messages sent by both of them over time. I was completely disgusted. What did she even get out of this interaction? I was mystified. I wanted to understand. I hated her and I couldn't forgive her. What could make her that way? How could she do that?

I didn't want to continue living in this house with her either. We'd never talked about it but she recognised well enough that I knew of her infidelity. To some degree. Enough. I don't think she knew I had access to the whole trove, she probably thought my Dad had found it and told me something, told me I wasn't his even maybe. Whatever. I began to make plans and as winter turned to spring I'd put aside a little money and decided which possessions I could get by with.

Based on the information in their correspondence I felt sure I could find him, it wasn't really that far. A few hours by bus. I made plans, bought a ticket for the morning of my eighteenth birthday. I'd be gone in the night, I'd leave a note saying I'd decided to find my way somewhere else and that I didn't want her to be a part of it. I found the cheapest lodging I could for the night of my arrival and booked it, opting to give myself that opportunity to confront my father and then I'd move on and find a new place of my own to be, to find myself and start fresh.

On the morning of my birthday I stole from my mother's house in darkness, carrying my small but heavy suitcase. I shivered at the bus stop in the cold morning air and just as the sky showed a hint of grey the bus pulled in and I was on my way out of this town, vowing never to return. I slept on the bus waking occasionally to the rolling countryside, to the rising sun.

I slept pretty much the whole way and awoke then in a new town, unfamiliar to me in fact but researched, and I disembarked with my luggage and looked for somewhere to grab a hot drink while I waited for the stated check in time for my lodging, where I could rest, take stock, prepare myself and in the end head out to make the rounds of the local bars where I might be able to find this man, my father. I'd need to make him out from the photos attached to my mother's early mails, only one of them really clear but even after nearly twenty years I knew I'd recognise those piercing blue eyes.

Cold eyes I thought, in the photo. I didn't like them. There was nothing in them that suggested why my mother was so addicted to him, what made him so irresistible that she'd turn her back on her husband and daughter repeatedly to be used by him. After I checked into my room I got a little more sleep. Rested, I went out for food, not that I could eat much, the tension had my stomach in knots.

I dressed to go out, I wanted to mix in with the Friday night crowd and I wanted to make an impression on my father, for him to know that he was dealing with a grown up and not some little girl he could dismiss. I brushed as much volume as I could into my long brunette waves. I wore a matching bra and panties set that made me feel confident and adult. I slipped a simple red dress on that fit my form snugly, emphasising what little curve I had to my figure and dropped with a ruffle from just beneath my butt to mid thigh. Straps so my chest and shoulders were exposed, keeping me cool. Simple kitten heels. I laid the make up on thickly, trying to give myself an extra year or two. Dark eye shadow and bright red lipstick. Lots of mascara. I looked in the mirror and gave my head a shake. Let's go find the bastard.

I'd left it until late evening and I planned to dive in and out of the places on my list. If I couldn't find him I'd go out again tomorrow, but every indication was that his weekend evenings were spent in places like these. I was nervous at first, funny looks from the bouncer, need to see some ID. Going in and trying not to look conspicuous as I sauntered around in the dark. Trying to get good coverage of the place. Waiting, going round again, he could have been in the toilet. Jumpy because I had to be ready at any moment. Who would he be with? How would I interrupt him?

It got easier after the second and third place but the nerves were there all the time. I walked into the fourth place coolly, didn't get ID'd, the place was lively though and there was a decent sized dance floor which was pretty well filled up by this time of night, it took up most of the space from the bar to the far wall and I walked around the edge near to the wall opposite the bar. The ladies was at the far end and I went in to freshen up, wondering how I'd ever spot anyone in here. I decide to look around the edges and maybe find a nook where I could see out into the dancefloor. I exited and continued around the edge of the room to the far corner, where the far end of the bar was. I reached the bar in the corner where there was a moment of space and turned to look down the length of the bar.

He stood at the bar, taking the change for a whiskey he'd just bought, that he held in his hand. As he put the change in his pocket he glanced over in my direction. Those blue eyes flashed, but not cold. Not warm either but... they were brilliant. They shone in the dark and everything else seemed to fade. I couldn't stop staring. He held my gaze. Put his drink on the bar. And he walked over to me. Confidently. Casually. Arrogantly. Still I stood gazing into those eyes. Spellbound. Mesmerised. I couldn't even think about saying words I'd thought would come so easily. If I'd decided on the words. Practised them. Trained myself. I'd know where to start, and things might have gone very, very differently. But I hadn't, and I stood there in his power, saying nothing. And he swept that big arm around me and he was pulling off towards the dance floor.

Was it only married women? Was I the exception? I'd heard of the type, it didn't strike me as plausible but then you have to meet a man that to see for yourself that they have some kind of strange power over women, and even then you have no idea where that power comes from or how they exert it. Even to the point you're in bed with him, taking him inside you. Or bearing his child for that matter. If you tried to explain it to someone else you'd be lost for any way to explain the logic. It's just the way it is.

So if he wanted to stick to married women then it was possible that he could. But then, why me? What had caused him to take me home that night? Not that there's any reason he shouldn't, I was under his power. Too stunned to speak, I hadn't anticipated the emotional response would dumbfound me, much less that every look, every touch from my father would leave me even more helpless before him. It wasn't a question I was likely to ever know the answer to. Why do anything, why live his life this way? It was all a mystery to me.