The Monster Inside Me Ch. 03

The damned, evil gun was pointing straight at his back as the thug pulled the trigger three times.

Three clicks. I don't know if it wasn't loaded to begin with, or just misfired. I know shit about guns. The thug started swearing, and asking his partners what the fuck was this, like he just found a turkey in his sandwich when he wanted ham. He pretty much just ignored us, I guess figuring he'd get around to killing us, or not, when he cared to.

In the chaos of the moment, Dad grabbed my purse and tossed it to one of them, along with his wallet and our phones. He stayed over me, covering me the whole time.

By then I was finally scared. The sound of the gun, the trigger clicking, picturing it all, and most of all realizing that we both would have died, we both came just that close to death, it all scared the hell out of me, a fear like I've never felt in my life. I tasted bile in my mouth, my ear was still ringing, and my head was starting to ache. I felt my body trembling. I was so fucking scared.

I was so scared, and I could see my fear reflected on Dad's face. We stared at each other, eyes blinking like strobe lights, waiting to see if this was going to be it, waiting until we heard them hustling away, waiting until enough time had passed that they had to be out of sight.

We had to walk home, with no money or phones. Dad kept me close, sheltered under his arm. I clung to him like a baby kangaroo. I was shaking the whole time. I was so fucking scared. It was hours before I calmed down.

My stupid idiot dad had been ready to die to save my life. What scared me most was that he was going to die. I honestly don't know what could have been worse in my life, my whole, screwed-up, pointless, painful life, if right at that moment he had died, because of me.

I learned two things from that night.

The first was that my dad would die for me, that I could trust him with anything, at least anything truly important, to put me ahead of himself.

The second was how important he was to me. No matter what, the time, the distance, Mom, the prom, Tanya, our lost family, my pathetic future, his failings, his failures, all of it, no matter what, he was important to me. I never knew it until that evening. But then I knew it with more certainty than anything else I ever learned in my life.

He was a prick, a sometimes childish, selfish, irresponsible prick, with the sex drive of a sixteen year-old boy, and the judgment to match, but he was my dad. I loved him, I needed him, and I trusted him beyond anyone else on earth, maybe more, now, than I'd ever trust any man.

* * *

When I'd finally decided the time had come, I didn't tell him. We sat closely together on the couch to watch TV, but neither of us was really interested in what was on. It was just a thing to do, you know? And an excuse to be together, instead of going about our own business. I think he knew what was coming, but he played it cool, and I liked that he did that.

After a while I snuggled up next to him, resting my head his chest. I could hear his heart thumping methodically. I could feel a kind, comfortable, welcoming warmth against the side of my face. I could smell his faint cologne through his cotton shirt.

He moved his arm up to the couch back, to make room for me, but he pointedly didn't put it around me. So I knew what I was doing, and I'm pretty sure he knew, too, but he was playing it super cool. I put the TV on mute, and turned on some music with my phone. I'd prepared a whole playlist, starting once again with Jackson Browne's "You Love the Thunder".

The thing was, this time we were both stone cold sober. There was no liquid courage flowing through our veins now. Nothing but blood. Now that we were here, it wasn't quite as easy as I'd imagined it would be. Yes, we'd already fucked, but no, fucking your dad, fucking your daughter, is just not so easy to do. When you're totally sober. Even after you've done it. When you know it's wrong. Dead wrong.

I considered getting us drinks, and then decided that would be fucked. If we needed drinks then we shouldn't do it. We already decided. We didn't need alcohol. Just suck it up and do it. It's just another cock.

My father's wonderful, forbidden cock.

The other thing is that people don't really fuck for a reason. We fuck because we want to. Because our bodies tell us we want to. Because a million years of evolution tells us we want to. Because our bodies want us to make babies.

Because of that last bit, yeah, evolution also sort of tells us who not to fuck, as in do not fuck your own mother or father or son or daughter or brother or sister, but hell, we already got past that hurdle. It made it hard, but not impossible.

In the end, everything else aside, we were going to fuck because it was what we wanted to do. We both wanted to do it, incest be damned. Society be damned. Evolution be damned. When I thought about that, the last resistance crumbled. It was suddenly easy.

While all of this was tangling itself up in my head, he looked at me and said something and almost destroyed it all.

He told me he loved me. He said he hadn't realized how much until he'd screwed it all up, but he said he did and he always had. He was sorry for leaving home, because of fucking Tanya, and for being around but absent in the few years before he left, when I was being a spoiled teen brat myself. He didn't say that, I thought it. He was sorry for staying away so much, for so long, after he left, but that didn't reflect how he felt. He missed me that whole time. He told me that he was my father, that he loved me, and that he'd always be there, and that nothing that ever happened would stop him from loving and protecting me.

We sat there, staring into each other's eyes, his and mine both the color of overcast skies wishing they were blue, while I felt embarrassing tears welling up. The more I tried to suppress them, the more they threatened to bubble up and out. I somberly searched his face for some hint of sadness or betrayal or distrust. Nothing. Just love.

I told him I loved him, too, that I always had and I'd never stop. No matter what. I had to close my eyes and bury my face in his chest as I said it, to keep from bursting into tears. To get myself back under control. Fuck.

And just so you're clear, this was about a dad loving his daughter, and a daughter loving her dad. Nothing more. Nothing perverse. Just that.

Not yet. We had that, at that one beautiful moment, and we still have it now, as I write this. He loves me, and I love him.

When I looked up at him again, after I'd finally composed myself, he smiled a soft smile, and my heart melted in a way I never thought it could. We could have stopped everything right there. We could have said no, this is wrong, and he'd be my dad, and I'd be his little girl, and everything would be good, the way it is for normal people. I knew that. I knew it. The moment was right there, calling to us, just waiting for us to skip messing it all up.

Against all reason, because it's who I am, I plowed ahead. I closed my eyes, tipped my head back and to the side, and let my lips drift languorously up towards his, hoping he'd meet me halfway, and kind of hoping he wouldn't.

He met me more than halfway.

It was just a peck, a very properly appropriate kiss for a father to share with his daughter. It was only an ambiguous start.

As we drifted apart again, I kept my eyes closed, not wanting to know the expression on his face. Eyes still closed, I leaned back in and kissed him quickly, two times, on his lips. The last time I grabbed his lower between mine, tugging at it oh so gently, but quickly releasing it again. Definitely not a father-daughter kiss, but ambiguously so. I waited three thundering heart beats with no response from him, then reached up to put my hand behind his neck, to hold him there if he tried to retreat.

I leaned in and kissed him again. This time I held our lips together. I didn't move them. I didn't make it overtly sexual, but I maintained the contact long past what was appropriate for a father-daughter kiss. But my message was clear. My lips parted oh so very slightly. An offering.

I could feel his moist, warm breath, shallow and controlled, meeting mine. The gray hair on his cheeks and chin brushed and tickled my skin. The scent of him overwhelmed my nose, an air of fading cologne and a day's worth of male musk, and something undefinable that I can only describe as uniquely Dad.

I was mortified that he might mess it up, that he'd want to talk about it some more, to make sure I blah blah blah. We'd been fucking talking all fucking week. Everything we could say had been said. I wanted him.

He didn't disappoint me.

His response, his kiss, was so intense, so consuming that I drenched my panties right then and there. A biblical flood of juices flowed through and out of my body. I squirmed in my seat, almost flailing about, until he took my head in both of his strong hands, held me in place, and drove his tongue between our joined lips to find my own.

It was awesome. Absolutely beyond anything you can ever fucking hope to experience, the most awesome, sensual, evil kiss any woman could ever fucking enjoy.

Dad kissed me, and there will never again be anything that can match how that felt. Fuck fireworks. Fuck sparks and electricity. This was the shit that God used to make galaxies.

I think that was maybe the first time in my life that I put my heart into a kiss. That night was the first night I really, truly put my heart into sex. Before then, sex was a contest to be won, or a performance on which to be judged. It was an act. Do it well, and you get more drinks. Do it well, and maybe he doesn't treat you like shit the next time you meet in daylight. Before then I didn't really care about him, whoever he was, or the occasional her, whoever she was. I just had to do my best. Perform. And maybe get off myself in the process.

I put my heart into it that night. How it felt for him mattered just because it did. How it felt for me mattered, because I wanted it to be good when I was with him, and I just wanted him to be awesome. I wanted to know my dad was awesome. My heart fell into our fucking — it wasn't lovemaking, not quite yet, but yeah, it was close. — my heart fell into our fucking in a way I never knew it could, or was supposed to.

That one absolutely amazing kiss started it all.

I don't know for how long we kissed. I don't care. I could have done it all night and well into the morning, and so, I think, could he. That was my first surprise. Shock. For Dad, sex isn't all about fucking or getting off. It's way more than that. For him, kissing is as or more important than fucking. That was the first of many things he's taught me about fuck... about making love. We kissed and kissed. We caressed each other, like hesitant, insecure teenagers, afraid to touch the other someplace we shouldn't — yeah, maybe because we really, really shouldn't — so we touched each other's faces, hands, arms and hair.

I don't know for sure, but I suspect that he was still hesitant about moving things forward with his beloved, only daughter, and I loved him for that, but we were so done with that, so I gave him a shove. I took his hand, which was then on my shoulder, and I pushed it down to glide over my tiny but supple breast. He felt the raging point of my hardened nipple, and he delightfully lost control, immediately moving to caress and to pinch it. I sucked air in through my nose as I redoubled the force of my own lips on his. He responded by virtually fucking my mouth with his strong, thick, relentless tongue.

Jesus fucking Christ, that felt so fucking good. Dad's lips on mine. Dad's tongue fucking my mouth. Dad's fingers teasing my nipples. I moaned into his throat, slipping one fumbling hand up to caress his neck and the edge of his jaw, while my other sought out his knee, then stroked forward and back along the inside of his muscular, denim-covered thigh.

He broke the kiss to stare into my eyes, and he told me I was beautiful. Fucking beautiful. I looked into his eyes, and hell, yes, I felt beautiful. I thought maybe I was beautiful. I dove into another kiss like a lusty, intoxicated whore.

I was going to suck his cock soon. Very soon. I just wanted a little more time being kissed. I just wanted to see if I felt beautiful. I just wanted to feel his hands on my nipple for a little longer. I'd get to it. To his cock.

Like I said, I don't know for how long we'd kissed, but Dad made the next move before I could find the will to do it. He finally lost whatever restraint he thought he had, and I liked that. His fingers pinched my nipple firmly, taking tight hold of it, then using it to drag me forward. I chirped with the unexpected, painful pleasure of the act. His other hand reached into my hair, behind my head, and it, too, pulled me forward, and down. I felt Dad dragging me, willingly, down and forward towards his crotch.

His cock was buried under that thick layer of stiff denim jeans. Fucking inconvenient. Now that he'd ended our kissing, I wanted his cock in my mouth so badly. He pressed my face against his bulge, while my one hand rested on his solid, muscular tree-trunk of a thigh. My cheek felt the warm, curved mound of his hard, magnificently forbidden cock. I nuzzled it, purring with satisfaction, rubbing it, massaging it with my cheek bone. My own fingers moved blindly, of their own accord, as if compelled by his will, up to his belt buckle and zipper. His hands gently stroked my hair as I lifted my head and skillfully, quickly freed his cock from its prison, pulling it out first with the trembling fingertips of one hand, then both.

* * *

So that tattoo I got, the black heart with two drops of blood in the middle? Want to know what I really think that represents? Last year he got one to match mine, on his chest, opposite to where mine is, so that when we fuck, our tattoos kiss.

The heart is our love for each other, surrounding us like a heart carved into a tree, surrounding the initials of two lovers. The drops of blood? That us. Blood. Family. The larger one is him, the father. The smaller one is me, the daughter. Two forbidden lovers, identities hidden, bounded by their love for each other and bonded by the blood of family.

Sappy. Maybe. Fuck you. It's true. And Dad kisses that tattoo every time he fucks me, before and after, and I love it when he does it.