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Coping Mechanisms: Living a Memory

12

Passions so sublime and wicked as those felt that day only seemed rendered obscure through retrospect. There would always be a need to feel again the way she did then, and with the need would always be a draw to replicate it down to every minute motion. Samantha would not know why until much later, but it was there. It was what brought her home from college so early this night. This is what caused her to peel her t-shirt and jeans off and slip the pink lace nightie her boyfriend had bought her a week before on over her matching bra and panties. This is what caused her to stare at herself in the mirror, replaying the events from last Friday over again in her head.

She was a commuter and still lived with her parents, but her time spent at the university was spent on more than classes. She was a graduate assistant too, serving the English department in many different ways, from aiding in securing panels at conferences in the Northeast, to more menial tasks like running copy jobs for the faculty. As a result, Samantha typically came home late, long after her father had gone to bed—her mother had her own night job and so she was out for the most part. She never bothered much with making her presence known when she arrived. She greeted both her parents each morning. The evening time was always different. And, besides, she liked to spend any small amount of freedom she had during those late moments in the day on pampering herself.

Tonight, though, she was more than a little distracted by thoughts of last Friday. Thoughts of his hands on her body, caressing her through this very nightie she wore now. Thoughts of his large form leering over her, dominating her through protests and confusion. Thoughts that she knew were wrong but simply could not shake. Thoughts of her father raping her.

It had started like any other day, that Friday. There was her Bio class in the afternoon-which she always dreaded. Samantha was not a science fan by any means. That might be shocking to some, though, since she had a somewhat bookish look. She was of average height, but she had red hair she wore just to her shoulders, a lithe figure with just enough curves to be feminine, small yet pert breasts, and, up until last year, she had worn fairly thick glasses. She had been striving to change this, to make herself look "hot" now that she was in college. Part of that change had been to opt for laser eye surgery, which thankfully worked wonders for her.

Her new direction all started when she met Todd. He was a handsome guy who also worked as a graduate assistant in the English department. They sparked a romance rather quickly. So quickly, in fact, that it took Todd less than two days to get in her pants. She had never been loose or anything of the sort, but the attraction was too strong and he had proved far too kind in that short period of time. They couldn't keep their hands off each other. Any time they were alone in a room, it would take Todd two seconds flat to have Samantha bent over some table, pinned to a wall, or simply spread out on the floor, and she loved every second of it. So, while it had been odd that he would give her a sexy pink, almost completely see-through, nightie for their first dating anniversary, as opposed to something more romantic like flowers for instance, she was ecstatic.

That was why she had gone straight home that Friday, skipping her duties so that she could try her gift on and prepare herself for a wicked night of sex with Todd—who had also skipped his own duties for the very same reason. Of course, she was forced to make up an excuse for why she had not slipped out and met up with him that night. He had been worried sick. This whole ordeal would, eventually, create a tidal wave through both of their live, but that is another story altogether. One she had not quite come to yet. The consequences of what she was thinking of doing, what she was thinking of perpetuating, would only hit her after the fact.

"I can hear you, daddy," she whispered beneath her breath with a tinge of anger blended finely with excitement. Her father, Jeremy, was awake, watching television in his room. It was clearly porn, as Samantha could hear the moans of some woman echoing through the hall. Just like the first time when she first discovered what he did while she and her mother were away.

Jeremy had made a habit of this each night. With his wife and daughter gone, he could unleash some of the pent-up sexual frustration wrought by his unraveling marriage. Samantha did not know it even now, but Jeremy had caught his wife cheating on him with her boss. He knew that many of her late night hours at work were actually spent sucking the bastard off. She promised to never do it again after he walked in on them one day—having planned to surprise her with flowers and tickets to her favorite band. She even seemed sincere. But she refused to quit her job or even request reassignment. She claimed it would look bad if she did, that she would never become a well-known defense attorney that way. He knew she was still fucking him.

Maybe if Samantha had known all of that then, she would have at least partially understood his actions. But she didn't so her feelings for her father were hatred complete. More than that, though, was a desire.

She looked once more at herself in the mirror. The triangle of her pink silk panties, decked with a lace design on either side, was perfectly visible through the nightie. Her bra cupped her small but pert breasts tightly so that it created just enough cleavage. She turned to the profile and arched, sticking her chest forward and her ass backward. "This should do." It was enough to satisfy her.

She walked to the top of the stairs. Her parent's room was just a few feet away. "Here goes nothing, Sam," she whispered to herself as she looked down. Flashes of the previous events ran their course through her head. She inhaled deeply, then, in one leap, threw herself down the stairs. Only, she didn't really. She thought about it, sure. It would be the most straightforward way to recreate her fall. But why really sprain her ankle again when she could fake it? Perhaps the real reason she thought about throwing herself down the stairs was in a feeble attempt to end everything. End the pain she suffered at her father's hands. End her odd desire for more.

Instead, she walked down the stairs halfway, to about the spot she had landed last Friday when she had tripped over her own clumsy feet. She lay down, her back propped to the wall, her knees up high enough that the hem of her nightie was pushed up her outer thigh, and her hands grasping her ankle. Then she screamed. At the top of her lungs, she screamed. It was just like the shriek she made when she really did sprain her ankle. And, just like before, her father was up, out his door, and down to her in no time flat.

"Not again," he said, looking down at Samantha's ankle. She noticed that his expression was different though. This was not the same genuine fear she saw in his eyes last Friday. The lust was already there. It did not take long for Jeremy's eyes to tracing up her leg this time. To drink in the pale flesh of her inner thighs along with the silk covered mound of her pussy. Jeremy was a handsome man for his age. He was in his mid-forties, but had maintained his highs school football figure with broad shoulders and firm pecs. He no longer sported a six-pack, as made apparent currently as he was only in his boxer-briefs at the moment, but his stomach was still hard as a rock.

"I fell, daddy," she said, ignoring this. Pretending they had not already been through this once before. "I think I twisted my ankle," she added, rubbing it and pushing it up toward his face.

He caught the hint it seemed, as the lust in his eyes intensified after a brief interlude filled with confusion. "I... I see, sweetie. Let daddy rub help," he said, reaching down and sliding one arm under her legs and the other around her back. His hand purposefully brushed against her soft pantied bottom this time, unlike the accidental brush from before.

At this point, Samantha's head was swimming. She knew everything that was coming, everything she had set in motion again. It all began to feel less like real time and more like watching a television rerun. The moment was no longer new, but it felt that way. Her mind needed it to feel that way. Because if it was simply happening a second time, there would be no excuse from her. It would be her fault. She would be to blame, not her father. There was also, strangely, a reprieve from all the anger and pain. If this was all the first time, then she did not know it yet, even though she did.

None of this really made sense, of course. She would be told by a psychologist much later in her life that it was all a defense mechanism. A way for her to cope with the rape. By repeating it, she could control it. It would be made into a living memory. And a living memory would only repeat when she wanted it to. That's why the nightmares went away for a time—at least until she would feel the pressure to do it all over again.

So, as Jeremy carried his little girl to her bedroom and lay her on the bed, Samantha actually, for a brief moment, though she had a kind, loving father interested only in her safety. He laid her softly on the bed, a knowing glint in his eye. He took a seat on the edge and pulled her foot into his lap. "Tell me where it hurts, baby," he whispered, rubbing tenderly at her ankle.

"Right there, daddy," she said, quenching her nose up, actually feeling the pain of a sprained ankle even though she had faked it this time.

"My poor girl. You need to be more careful," he said, rubbing it a bit more. Her heel was right at the tip of the tent in his boxers now, softly caressing it quite inconspicuously every few motions as he massage her ankle.

Her eyes widened as they were drawn to this. She was shocked that her father was so hard—even though part of her expected it. A blush crept into her cheeks. A blush he would notice, just as he did before. One that encouraged him.

"Where else does it hurt, sweetie?" he asked as she started to stroke one hand higher, sliding it up her calf while he held her foot in place with his other hand. The pressure of her heel on his aching erection was sending a thrill once again through Jeremy. This thrill was made evident as his member throbbed against the pressure, straining his underwear.

"Um, nowhere else. Only my ankle," she said, seeming flustered and starting to pull her leg away.

"Now, now, Samantha. Don't be shy. Tell daddy where else," he persisted, playing into his part perfectly. His hand slid higher until it was on her inner thigh. "Maybe you strained your muscle too? Daddy can massage that out for you, pumpkin," he said with a leer.

"No, daddy. I'm fine. I promise. Even my ankle is fine now, see?" She attempted to pull her ankle up from his lap to wiggle it at him and reassure him she was fine. Jeremy, of course, as Samantha's inner-self knew, would not let her. He held her foot in place while simultaneously leaning in. His hand was beneath the bottom of her nightie now.

"Daddy, what are you doing?" Samantha asked, her voice trembling with the same confused fright she had experienced the first time.

"Shh, don't worry, pumpkin. I'm just helping to take your mind off the pain," he said, speaking truer words than he would ever imagine. The pain may have been her ankle before, but now it was her rape. He roughly cupped her hand over her silk covered mound, pressing his index finger against her hidden folds and admiring how smooth his daughter kept herself down there once again.

"Daddy, no!" She screamed, immediately grabbing his wrist and trying her hardest to pull his hand away. It was too late though, as his determined eyes revealed. Jeremy's list had once again broken free. His need to take out revenge on his wife had surfaced. And, again, what better source for this revenge than their offspring, who happened to look so much like her mother that it hurt.

"Shut up, slut," he said. This almost snapped Samantha out of her rerun fantasy and back to her senses as her father had not said that before. Last time, he had actually gone a bit slower, not saying anything else after touching her. He simply took her while she screamed no.

"What!?" She screamed in pure reflex.

"You heard me, slut. Shut the fuck up and take it like the whore you are," Jeremy shouted. He was over her now already, having forced his way between her legs and pinned her back against her bed in a flash.

"Daddy, no, please," she begged, a bit more genuinely this time. She could feel his tented boxers rubbing between her legs, creating friction against her crotch as he grabbed and pinned her wrists above her head. "Don't. Please. This is wrong!" she continued to plead even while her pussy grew wetter than ever before.

"What's wrong is you walking around in that slutty outfit in front of me, fucking that asshole behind my back, and then pretending like it's no big deal," he cried out, grinding himself hard against her, seemingly content enough right now to dry hump his daughter into oblivion.

She did not realize it, of course, but Jeremy was very much directing those comments at his wife. For him, his daughter was simply an out.

Tears streamed down her cheeks now, stinging that familiar sting, glistening on her soft, heated flesh with that familiar glisten. Her hips bucked up against him then, as she ground her pussy back. This was also something that had not occurred the first time. She had laid perfectly still the first time, taking everything he gave her with minimal movement, for too ashamed to do much at all. Now she was humping eagerly back against him.

"Yeah, that's what I thought. You are a slut, aren't you? You are daddy's slut, aren't you?"

She shook her head side to side. "No, daddy. Please, no. Don't do this. I promise I won't tell if you just stop. Please!" She would never admit to the building pleasure deep inside of her. Even as she felt his cock slide between her lower lips, resting at the end of a particularly hard grind, and throbbing there against where the hood of her clitoris lay buried beneath her panties, she could not stop begging him to stop. Her body, however, could certainly demand more. And it did. She writhed up against him now, rolling her hips into his as a moan escaped her pleading lips.

"You are damn right you won't tell anyone," he said. "You want it anyway. You want my cock inside you again, don't you, slut? Daddy's little slut," he said, mocking her as he reached down and pushed the crotch of her soaked panties aside. He then pulled the edge of his boxer briefs down, letting his 9 inch cock spring free and slap against his wetness. Feeling the heat of his member pulsing so close to her quivering entrance caused Samantha to shiver with delight. When he pulled back and aligned himself, she spread her legs wider and back small fists of her pinned hands.

"No, no, daddy, please. Don't do this. I'm little girl. Your princess. Remember? Please," she repeated over and over, eyes closed, shaking her head back and forth. Then she felt his tip push just barely in-between her lips, and she arched up, head back, moaning. Her vaginal walls clenched in anticipation, eager to received her father's shaft and to squeeze it for all its worth. "No, no, no," she repeated between moans, now in a softer, more distant voice.

Then, in one thrust, her father as inside of her again. Her eyes shot open. He had thrust in as hard as he could this time, not taking it slow at all. On this very first thrust she could already feel his balls slap against her. He held himself there. Buried entirely in his little girl's tight pussy. She could feel him pulsating, and her eyes started to glaze over. "Daddy," she would whisper. Her voice trembled as much as her body did. She thought to herself that this must be how a heroin addict feels when shooting. Everything felt light. She felt like she was floating even with his weight pressing down on her.

Jeremy had grown silent now, lost in his own bliss having again invaded his little girl's body. Whether he felt any guilt or not was anyone's guess, but it certainly was not evident on his face right now. His balls were already tensed up. He actually had to struggle to keep from exploding right then and there. He pulled out to just the tip, being certain to do so very slowly. Then he slammed back in. An ache shot through him when he did this, threatening to cut short his fun, so he again rested himself deep inside of her until the feeling passed, at which point he would pull out and thrust in again. He kept this up until he could handle fucking her harder.

"Daddy," she breathed, "no, stop," she said as she felt herself bounced between his thrusts and her bed springs. He eventually released her hands and she put them on his chest as if pushing him, but she did not really put much effort into it. It didn't work the first time, it certainly wouldn't this time.

They went like this for what seemed like an hour. He was relentless, gaining speed and force every few minutes. Her nightie had been shoved far up her body by the time he decided it would be a good idea to feast on his daughter's breasts. This too, was new, as he had not had the time the first time to do so. He pushed the top of the nightie up even more and leaned in, wasting no time as he wrapped his lips around her right nipple. She arched her chest up in surprise, a tingling shot of electricity running through her right down to her aching clitoris and clenching pussy. The tears had stopped by this point, even though she still panted a "no" here and there.

Jeremy moved to his daughter's other nipple, doing the same thing to it, flicking it with his tongue and even biting it. It was not long before Samantha's pussy started to clench even tighter, her clit throb even harder. Her pinnacle was close. She felt a bomb ticking in her lower abdomen, ready to go off with thee next thrust. Jeremy seemed to recognize this, as he started to thrust harder. His cock angling up every few thrusts and brushing against Samantha's g-spot. In the next few seconds, she was a goner, lost in a sea of ecstasy wrought by the incestuous pleasures fueling them both. She spasm, squeezing him tightly with her arms and legs both, pulling and hold his cock all the way inside her squirming body as she had a mind-numbing orgasm that left the back of her head tingling.

"Oh God, baby girl, I'm gonna," she heard her father groan. Her orgasm had set him off. He would not be finishing on her stomach this time. This time, he would be finishing inside of her.

His cock exploded on his final thrust, squirting ropes of his seed deep into her body. Hot sticky spunk slammed against her cervix as hard as he had slammed against her. Her eyes rolled back in her head and her mouth hung agape in perpetual lust. She could feel her father's cock still pulsing inside of her even after the last rope of cum shot out. She knew she had far more than one measly orgasm, but she was in no state to count.

Then she collapsed flat to the bed, with her father collapsed atop her, still inside of her. They lay like this for a few minutes before he pulled himself to and climbed off of her, his cock plopping free of her pussy. His cum leaked slowly out of her, but as he looked at her, his daughter, in that state—spread eagle on her bed, panties pulled aside, nightie pushed up, a look of lust on her face even still as the soft light beamed on the dry tears staining her cheek—he could not begin to fathom the consequences of cumming inside of her. That would come another day. Instead, he did perhaps the most heartless thing a father could upon seeing such a sight. he leaned down, stroked his daughter's cheek, kissed her forehead, and whispered, "sweet dreams, princess." Then he left, retiring to his room.

12
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