The Monster Inside Me Ch. 04

He told me I was beautiful, and for maybe the first time in my entire life, I was sure, absolutely sure, that I was beautiful.

Dad fucked me. I fucked Daddy.

It was amazing.

* * *

I know this is sappy, especially coming from me, but it's how I really felt that night, how I fucking really felt and thought and was. Remember when I told you that I'm impulsive, and I live in the moment? That I have a temper? Well, maybe this is the other side of that. Still impulsive, but in a softer way.

I awoke in the darkest hours of the night. As my mind moved from dream to something in between, it slowly came to me where I was, that I was not alone, and the identify of the source of the breathing beside me. My eyes fluttered open to full, so conscious wakefulness as I admitted to who I was, who he was, and what we had done. Again.

I rose up to a sitting position, not bothering to gather the sheets around me. Any thought of modesty was long abandoned. The cool night air kissed my skin. It might have hardened my nipples, were they not already spent. I glanced over at his still, sleeping form, watching his chest rise and fall beside me.

He looked so much older, so much more worn, even in the soft, blue black light of the dead of night. I hadn't ever really noticed how he'd aged. He was always just Dad. He looked so different now from that idyllic, kind, strong man that I remembered from those ancient days when life's biggest fear was a scratch whose pain could be whisked away with a kiss and a warm, comforting smile.

He'd given so much since then. He'd sacrificed for me throughout his life, I had finally realized. That night I didn't recognize or list all of the things he'd done for me, but I started to. After that day, I started to awaken to all he was to me, and all he'd ever been, and all he'd given and given up for me.

I closed my eyes, willing back the memory of our fucking. Intercourse. Love-making. Fuck, I don't know. Fucking, I guess. I remembered the reaches to which he'd led my body, how far and easily he'd brought me pleasures I'd never found in another man, in all of my copious, pointless attempts. I remembered his kisses, his touch, his penetration. His chest, his hands, his lips, his cock. His groans, my sighs, my screams.

When I opened my eyes again, looking down on his sleeping form, that man was there, not simply my father, but the man who'd fucked me so deeply and dearly and sincerely. The man who'd seen me as beautiful. And proved it to me.

As I watched his chest rise and fall, listening to his calm breathing, I replayed our evening in my head, that glorious first effort, when he'd taken me like no other man ever had, and then a second coupling, begun later, only after we'd lay beside each other, laughing and teasing and talking, in his bed in the protective darkness.

In the midst of our laughter and fondness for each other, he'd gone silent, stopping to stare into my eyes in the dark, freezing me an in absurd state of panic, like some sixteen year old teenager, , before kissing me deeply. Then touching me. Tasting my nipples. Kissing my belly. Toying with the piercing in my navel with his tongue. Caressing my thighs. Nibbling on my labia, before probing my soft, pink, forbidden wetness more deeply with his tongue. Bringing me another orgasm, with his mouth, briefer but more intense than those before. Then entering me again, loving me, holding me and finding his own pleasure inside of me. This time the sex was softer, more tender, and more exploring, two new lovers patiently hunting for what their partner likes or loves. I was more in control of myself, and he was less so, which was nice.

Here, afterward, as he slept, I lay my head down on his chest, the chest that had smothered me and crushed me into the mattress just hours ago, as he found joy and passion and finally peace in my body. I felt the rise and fall of his breast. I heard the strength of his heartbeat in the black night.

I decided then that we would be lovers. I know that was silliness, just the late night afterglow of sex and lust and romance, colored by the romance of the protective, insulating, inky darkness. I didn't know what the morning would bring for him, guilt or remorse or just playful banter, or if he expected our lust to continue or that it would just be one fun but meaningless night to him, replacing the other. It didn't matter. I decided then that I would be his, at least for a while, in a way I'd never given myself to another man. I'd give him affection, and trust, and longing and yes, lust. Oceans of lust. And if he asked it, I'd change who I was for him.

I realized, too, that I didn't really know who he was, not really. There was a whole complex, charming, lovable man here that I didn't know, but I wanted to. Lying here was a man with two times my life of experiences, and joys and pains. Anything I'd been through, he'd lived as well, in one way or another. I know he looked like one thing to me, as my dad, that I thought that he was this, but the world is full of people who look like one thing, but are something entirely different underneath. I was one of those people. I knew then that he was another, at least to me. I didn't really know him, but I was going to discover who my dad really was.

I knew I didn't love him, not yet, not as a man. As a father, yes, absolutely and completely, more than I'd admitted to myself for most of my life. Somehow, fucking him had shown me how much I loved him as a father. But as a man, yes, he was a really, really, really good lay, with a depth to his soul that made my heart weep and my pussy quiver. But I didn't love him that way, not yet. I would. I would make myself fall in love with him. I knew then that I would, in time, and that I would make him love me, too. That was all to come, a daughter loving her father, a father loving his daughter, in reckless, wrong, forbidden ways, a man loving a woman, and to hell with everyone else.

* * *

My dad and I aren't like you. We've both always sort of lived outside of the world, apart from the rest of you. We're both smart. I probably think five times as fast as you do. Don't believe me? Or does it hurt your feelings? Too fucking bad. It's true.

But we're different, and we embrace that. Always have.

Thing is, neither of us really needs people. You may have noticed I don't have any friends. Close friends, at least. Anyone I'd dare to tell this shit to, at least.

That's a curse and a blessing. Maybe it's lonely. I don't know. I don't think I know what loneliness is, or maybe what I really don't know is what it's not.

But I'm good with that. I know what I need, and what I like, and what makes me happy. And my dad is a lot like me.

We have an arrangement of sorts. It works for us.

If I want to fuck him, I do. If I want him to fuck me, he does. If he wants to fuck, he has to ask, in various subtle ways, and be ready to unquestioningly accept a no.

We only sleep together when I choose, and only at his place, never mine. My little studio is my safe space. He insisted on that, not me. He said I always needed my own place to which to escape. Anyway, it's too small, the walls are too thin, and neither one of us wants to explain to the neighbors why my dad keeps spending the night in my bed, or what all those loud noises are. And we don't want to keep quiet. The noise is half the fun. I love telling him how big Daddy's cock feels inside of me, and he loves telling me that he's filling his daughter's pussy with cock and cum. And of course I love telling him I love him, and hearing him tell me the same.

I spend most of my time at his place anyway, because I want to. It's bigger, brighter, and more comfortable. And he's there. But I have my place when I want it.

On choosing when and where and how we do it, he can flirt and hint, or come out and ask, of course, and sometimes even kind of force himself on me, because I like it that way. But I get total right of refusal, no questions asked. I am in control that way.

We both get to sleep with other people, but if I want him, he has to ditch any slut he has lined up, even if she's already in his bed. He says he's never getting married again. Mom sort of ruined that for him. He doesn't even want a woman for companionship. He's got his hockey buddies. He's got me. He just likes to fuck, and there are lots of women out there to fuck, but that's as far as it will ever go for him, he says.

The thing is, since we made this arrangement, he's never been with anyone but me. I don't know if that will change. I don't think I'll mind if it does. But for now, I like it that way. Dad is all mine.

Sometimes I pick up a girl to play with. Never a guy. There's one girl I waitress with. She's funny, and cute. We like to hang out, and sometimes, when we get bored, we like to get freaky. She's a pretty good kisser, not as good as Dad, but good, and she makes great noises when I make her come. I like that. Dad's birthday is coming up. I'm thinking about telling her about Dad, and inviting her to join us, as a gift to him.

He won't let me drink much anymore, and he cut back himself. He pointed out that I was on a path to becoming an alcoholic, like my mother, and that scared the shit out of me. I only drink when I'm with him, and only one or two. I never, ever get drunk anymore. In that way, I think he really saved me.

Dad pays for college classes, a full load, and some of my rent. I feel bad about that, because it's really, really tough on him. Between the house, the alimony, and everything else, he's got nothing left. So I still work two jobs myself. But I'm working towards a degree in paralegal. So I can wed some fucking rich lawyer, I guess. We'll see.

I could quit work if I moved in with him, but he won't let me. He says I have to have a place to escape to, so I never feel trapped or controlled by him. I have to have my own money, too, for the same reason. But to do those two things, I need to work. Dad's not rich.

And he says I have to have a place to bring guys "my age." He doesn't know I stopped fucking guys my age years ago, and since him, I have no interest in fucking any guys any age, other than him. I mean, he knows that, and I don't know if he says it for show, or because he thinks it would be good for me, or because he thinks it's inevitable. I don't know. It's his problem, not mine. Right now, I'm fucking him and him alone.

We'll see. For now, this works. But I kind of want to move in with him now, even if I keep working. I think I kind of to want him all to myself, and I want him to know it, and to accept it. I want him to want me all to himself, as well.

We'll see.

* * *

He tells me often now how beautiful I am, when I know I'm not, or not entirely. He's said it my whole life, and once I was old enough to know better, I dismissed it. I don't think I even noticed anymore when he said it. It was so automatic, he'd say it, and I wouldn't even hear it. He's my dad, right? He has to say that. It's his job.

But now I'm not so sure. I mean, I know I'm not beautiful, not by most guys' standards. Maybe cute, often sexy, but that's more about how you behave than how you look. But I'm no model, no head-turner. I'm not beautiful.

But Dad. I think I really am beautiful to Dad. In his eyes I am a head-turner. He looks at me a lot, stares at me, when he thinks I don't notice. I like that. I love that. When I know he's doing it, I don't turn his way, I don't look at him, just so he'll keep doing it, and I can bathe in the idea that he thinks I'm so fucking beautiful that he just watches me.

He tells me I'm beautiful when I walk into a sunny room. When I'm caught in the rain, soaking wet. When I wake up with a hangover. When I wake up beside him in his bed. When he fucks me. Before he fucks me. As he fucks me. After he fucks me. When he's too exhausted to fuck me. When he's falling-off-the-stool drunk, which is when you find out what people really, really think about you.

He really does think I'm beautiful, so I am, you know?

I'm fucking beautiful. A beautiful mess. Daddy's beautiful mess.

* * *

Look, I'm not stupid, okay? This is screwed-up, really, really screwed-up. I know it. I just can't stop.

I know it has to end. Things with guys always end. He gets bored, you get bored, he changes, you don't, or vice versa. He cheats. He asks for something you can't give. You ask and he says no, or just disappears without saying anything.

That's how it goes.

I know we're not getting married, and having babies. I'm not an idiot. I don't even ever want children. Why would I do that to some poor kid, and saddle them with a twisted, messed-up mother like me?

So it has to end. I know it does. And when it does, what do I have left? An ex-lover. Anything else?

How much do I lose? A father? A friend? A protector? What can we rescue from the ashes when we both burn out?

I don't know. Like I said, it doesn't matter, because I don't care. I can't stop, even if I wanted to, and I sure as hell don't ever want to stop. This, here and now, is perfect. I'm happy. I'm fucking happy.

So I'm daddy's little girl. Daddy's little lover-girl. That's me, now and maybe not forever, but for as long as I can hold it together.

I just want you to know. You just need to know that I love Dad. I fuck Dad.

Maybe I'm a monster. Maybe he's a monster. Maybe you're the monster. Maybe we're all fucking monsters?

Who cares?

It's screwed-up, but it's pure, honest, real screwed-up.

I fuck Dad.