The Monster Inside Me Ch. 02

I still wasn't going to fuck him. That wasn't what this was about. I'd done this kind of thing a thousand times. If I was going to fuck him, I'd already have had his cock in my mouth. That was "my move". In a flick I could have his cock out and in my mouth, and it would be over. He'd do whatever I wanted. At least, any other guy would.

But I didn't. It wasn't what I wanted. At least, that's what I told myself. Tell myself. Fuck, that's why I was so upset the next morning. Because it really was all my fault. I really did do it. Every step of the way, from the flashing, to the flirting, to the hardened nipples, to the dancing, to the crotch stroking, I did it.

I did it.

The rest of it is pretty predictable. We got to his place. I took the bed while he went to the couch. He got undressed out there. I got undressed down to my bra, panties and socks. I heard him lay down. He put on some soft but intense music, some Jackson Browne, "You Love the Thunder", I think, music from his youth. It was a song we both liked, and in that moment, in that mood, it called to me. I waited a moment, until he was silent, and then I went to him, half stumbling, I suppose, in my socks in the dark.

He was naked.

His cock was erect.

For me.

He wasn't asleep. He was looking up at me with a drunken stupor. He didn't move. He didn't reach for me. He was just looking at me. Then his eyes dropped down to scan my body, head to toe to head again. I bit my lip. I started to back up.

His hand reached out to me. He didn't grab me. He just reached out to me. It was my choice.

My choice.

I stepped forward, reaching for him, and our fingertips touched. His fingers spread, and mine spread, and they interlocked. We gently, very gently, stroked the insides of each other's fingertips, sort of like gently, lovingly fucking with our just hands.

With our fingers entwined, I slipped forward. I straddled him. I felt his hard cock pressing against my vulva through my panties. Our other hands met, fingers interlocking. We stared at each other. I realized then that I was unconsciously moving, stroking his cock with my camel toe, back and forth, ever to gently. Not eagerly, not ferociously, just very gently, with the same smooth, slow rhythm of our slow dance.

My eyes closed. I just lost myself, then, in that simple motion. I wasn't thinking about who he was. He wasn't Daddy. He was just a guy, and older guy, I'd met in a bar. I'd had older guys before. A lot of them. I liked them. They had more money. They were more appreciative, and attentive, and thoughtful. They weren't usually quite as big of a prick as younger guys.

He wasn't my dad. I swear to god, by then, I wasn't even thinking that he was my dad, at least for those moments. He was just a guy. A good looking, older, sexy guy.

I don't know how long I was there. I don't know how long I stroked his cock with my panty-covered pussy. I don't know how mind-numbingly eager I got by doing it. I don't know if I picked up the pace, if I was making noises, if I was going to come.

All I know is that he picked me up. Very suddenly, he lifted me up, and I was in the air. My legs quickly wrapped around his hips, my arms wrapped around his neck, hanging on. I held on tight, resting my head against his shoulder, as he carried me into the bedroom. His hands were again splayed on my back, like angels wings, holding me tight as I flew to his bedroom.

As quickly as he lifted me, I was on my back on his bed. Before I knew it, he'd pulled my panties aside. Before I knew it, his cock was inside of me. At that moment, for one fraction of a moment, I realized what we were doing. I felt panic, and doubt. For just that one moment, I wanted to escape, or to push him away. I wanted to, but all I could do was to dig my fingers into the flesh of his shoulders, I think so hard that my nails drew blood.

He slid inside of me so easily. I was so wet, so fucking wet, so fucking willing, so fucking ready. He felt big, I felt so tight, yet he filled me quickly and completely, so fucking completely. It was amazing. I remember that much. The panic dropped away like the last leaf of fall. Having my dad's cock inside of me was like nothing I'd ever imagined, a pleasure that was physical, mental, emotional and surreal. My mind fell back into a tumultuous sea of alcohol and mindless, physical pleasure, as I so willingly accepted him into me and surrendered my body to him completely.

I lay back and enjoyed it.

I didn't know what he was thinking. I didn't know what he felt, or how sober he was, or if he realized that he was fucking his daughter. I only knew about me, that I knew who he was. I was in a euphoric, drunken fog, with a marvelous cock attached to a sexy man, my dad, filling me and bringing me to orgasm. My dad.

I knew it was my dad, and I fucking loved it. I didn't feel the shame of that at the time. That would come later.

I don't know if he fucked me hard or soft, fast or slow. I don't know if he was gentle. I don't know if he touched my body, my breasts or my ass. I know we didn't kiss. I regret that now. I don't know anything else except that his cock was moving inside of me, stretching me and filling me, and that eventually he tensed, shuddered, held me almost painfully tightly, his hands once again behind my back like angel's wings, as he came inside of me. He shuddered, and then subsided.

I do remember that I felt a joy at having him inside of me. From the moment he entered me, I knew who he was. I knew it was my dad, and I loved it. Every time he moved inside of me, every inch of him, felt wonderful. I felt no guilt, no regret, not even a question. I didn't ask, I simply succumbed and smiled and held him inside of me with every part of my body that was capable. I was being truly honest with myself. It was what I wanted.

I think I came. I'm not sure when. Before him, after him, I don't know. I remember smiling a stupid, drunken, ignorant, mindless smile, and then drifting off to sleep.

* * *

Starting when I was about eight or nine, I had to live with some bullies. I refuse to say "deal with," because no one ever deals with bullies, and people who give you advice about how to do so are full of shit and obviously really never faced anything like it. Fuck them.

The fact is that I'm different. I almost fit in. I'm not unlikeable. I have friends. But I feel like I'm always on the periphery, always trying but failing to be really, unquestionably accepted. I don't want or need to be the center of attention. I just don't want to be on the outside looking in, or worse than that, the one that everyone is looking at and whispering about with each other.

The worst of it was probably when I was nine, because the bullies were my friends. When I got older, I was better able to recognize that and get away from people like them, or at least to always be on my guard, to know exactly where I stood. But at the beginning, I had three friends, and I thought I was part of the group, but instead it was a carousel of hope, anxiety and pain, hope, anxiety and pain, over and over again. One week I was in the group, begin gleefully included. The next week they were whispering about me, and I'd find out they went to the mall or a movie or just got together at someone's house without me. The week after that they'd flat out ignore me and act like I wasn't there.

Then, one day, they'd just start talking to me and treating me nicely, as if nothing else had ever happened, this time or all of the myriad times before. It was almost like the act of excluding me wasn't fun unless they first put some effort into including me. One of the girls, Rita, was better than the rest. I think she really wanted me to be their friend, but she always got voted down, and didn't have the strength or will to push back herself. I can't blame her. If I was the one who was in, I don't know if I'd have had the courage to risk that for someone who was out. Better them than me.

It took quite a few cycles of that, each one bringing me to new, terrifying lows, before I started to catch on. I learned to play the game, but I started with a stone.

It was a small, smooth, flat rock, gray with darker gray swirls running through it, that I picked up from a neighbor's garden. They had a ton, and probably paid good money for them, but they wouldn't miss just one. I picked out one I liked, then I happily defaced it. I think it felt good because it was an act of mischievous defiance, even if it was utterly harmless. It was just a stupid stone, and it was the height of vandalism, at least for nine-year-old me.

I carved the word "strength" into the side, first with a pathetic little pen knife, and then a little deeper using a chisel I took from my Dad's stuff in the garage. I pounded the top of the chisel with another rock, and got pretty good block letters carved into the top side.

"Strength."

I put that on my desk, and when I hit the lows, I'd look at it, or put it in my hand, cool to the touch at first, until I warmed it with my own beating heart and pulsing blood. Some nights I'd put it under my pillow. I made a point of using it when things started to go better, to remind myself that even then I had to be strong, because it was likely just a trap, just the lure to draw me into position for the spikes that would get me later.

Eventually, I ditched that group of girls, but I don't know if it was because I found the strength to do it, or I lacked the strength to go through one more episode of hope, anxiety and pain. One way or the other, I lost them, but kept the stone.

When I was thirteen, Mom and Dad started fighting more. I think they always fought, but I either didn't notice it, or didn't recognize it for what it was. And I know it got worse and worse as time went on. Mom got more and more abusive, and Dad put up with less and less shit. I think he had a lot of patience early on, but one day, sometime that year, he reached his limit and started telling Mom to fuck off. They got loud, and vulgar, and passionate. It was the most passion I'd ever seen between them in all of my life, and it was the very worst kind.

But I was just a kid, and their fighting hurt worse than the bullying. I'd lie in bed, listening to them scream, thinking that my world was going to come crashing down. They were going to divorce. One of them would take me, and I wasn't sure then which one would be the lesser of two burning hells. Well, okay, I wanted it to be my dad. He wasn't a mom, he wouldn't do "girl" things with me, or understand what I was feeling, and he lived his own life without really paying that much attention to me or my life anymore, but he wasn't an abusive alcoholic. He wouldn't actually cause me pain, just a lack of attention.

But I didn't want either one, by themselves. I wanted to have the family that all of the other kids seemed to have. The family I thought I remembered having when I was younger, even if that never actually existed.

That's when I made "Harmony." I stole another rock from my neighbor, this one a sort of orangish brown with speckles and swirls and all sorts of chaotic crap, the exact opposite of what it was going to represent. I carved the word "Harmony" into it, using that same old chisel, and I'd grab either it or "Strength," or both when the fighting got dangerously loud, until one of them stormed out, slamming doors in their wake, while I lay trembling in fear of what it would mean for me, wondering if that was it, and this time was the end of everything. And of course, for so much of my life, everything came back to me. I cared about what it meant for me. It was like I was oblivious to what anyone else was going through. Me, me, me.

The funny thing is that as I got older, I realized that my harmony stone was a joke. A joke on me. If anyone in the fucking universe is out of step with the everyone else, it's fucking me. And fucking Mom. And fucking Dad. We're like the center of the universe of dis-concordant beings in a universe that teasingly seems to be in harmony for everyone fucking else.

Still, I keep that stone as something I wanted, something I should strive for, even if I have no hope of ever attaining it. But when I finally figured that out, I realized that I needed another stone, a last stone.

The last one I made when I was about fifteen. By then I realized that I was reaching the end of my miserable life as I knew it. Not that I was going to die, or off myself. Forget that. I'm not depressed, just miserable, and pissed about it. But I knew that no matter what happened, life beyond this life was coming at me, adult life, and I couldn't wait to get out and deal with it on my own. I wanted to get away from high school, get away from my family, get away from my so-called peripheral friends, to just get out and live my way, on my own, in my direction. I wanted that fresh start.

I wanted to escape my life. But I also wanted to escape me. I wanted to change who I was. I wanted to figure out why I didn't have better friends, why I was no longer the center of my family, where and how I was going to fit into a giant world that seemed to have a place in it for everyone but me.

So I made "Change." That was a pale, whitish stone, a little bigger than the other two, and the last in the collection.

Strength. Harmony. Change.

Those three qualities summed up what I wanted to achieve in my life. Or maybe they summed up where I was failing in my life, or how everyone in my life was failing me, or what I needed to do to actually achieve anything in my life. Like being happy for more than a short while.

Strength, harmony and change, carved into little, ordinary stones like they were things that you could just find lying around on the ground, and pick them up to keep.

* * *

I think about my dad pretty much every day of my life. That goes without saying when you're younger, but not after that, not for most people, I don't think. Not every day. I thought about him a ton, that first year he moved out. I've never missed anyone so much in my life, even though I either tortured or ignored him while he was there. I was stupid. I want those years back. I kept missing him after I moved out, too, and that's what's weird. Maybe it was just habit, but I still kept thinking about him. It wasn't compulsive, or anything. I didn't do it all the time. But I did it a lot, at random moments.

I'd think about him when I was shopping, wondering if he'd like an outfit I was considering. I'd think about him when I was ordering from a menu, wondering what he would order if he were there. I'd think about him when I had a fight with a co-worker, or a boss, or a guy, thinking that he'd be on my side, and together we'd get our way. I'd think about him whenever I made a decision, wondering what he'd advise, or if he'd approve.

I'd think about him when the sun was setting, and the world was getting dark, draining itself of everything and everyone else but me and my thoughts, thinking nothing in particular, just sort of wondering where he was, and if he thought about me as often as I thought about him.

I wasn't in love with him, as a man. Don't get confused. I wasn't hot for him. But he was my dad.

Now that we're together, I think about him even more. There's almost nothing that I'll do that I don't think about what he'd think, or how he'd react, what he'd find amusing or concerning or interesting. If he's not with me, I'll picture him smiling, when I see or hear or do something funny, or something just plain embarrassing for me. I picture his eyes smoldering with either jealousy or lust, when I notice any random guy checking me out. I picture him just watching me, silent and unmoving, as I work.

I picture him adoring me, looking at me with the same love and affection that he has for my entire life. Or just watching me walk away from him, admiring and lusting after my body as I retreat.

It's like he's always there, with me, when he's not. And that makes me feel good.

Is that weird?