The Christmas in July Luau

He pulled out of me, and right before he took my tits into his mouth again I saw the look. It hadn't washed away with the orgasm, by fucking god.

The look I had searched and searched for, the look I could not describe in words. The look that Venezuelan father had let his face turn into at the luau.

My quest was over. I had gotten it. I got it all night long, as stupid as that sounds.

My father did unspeakable things to my smaller body that night, and I took all of it like a champion, like a professional, like a devoted daughter. Like I said—fully prepared. I won't go into all of the things in such detail, because hey, you know, I don't have all the time in the world here—I am going to die someday.

He ate me. He ate me like a wolf eats a kill. The wonderful warm lips that had kissed me goodnight so long ago now sucked and slurped my big-girl cunt. We were both loud. I came again. He fingered me with every finger. In my memory it seems like his tongue pressed into my asshole every couple of minutes. He never stopped rubbing my skin all over, he pressed his cock—flaccid or hard, it didn't matter—into every nook and cranny I had, and he sucked my fat beautiful asscheeks into his frothing mouth. He sucked my tits so long and they got so raw that I thought about asking him to stop, but I didn't. I couldn't. I wanted this hulking crazed thing that used to be my dad to have everything it wanted for as long as it wanted.

The room began to hum with hot odor, the rank smell of hardcore animal sex. I usually didn't mind that smell that much, but it was never something I enjoyed. Until that night. It was our smell. Our family smell. It was tribal. I bathed in its glorious thickness. I took deep breaths of it. We doused each other in ourselves. We soaked each other in our sweat and our fluids. The air became a wretched blanket composed of the deliciously primal stink of humans ferociously breeding.

At one point, he did the other thing, thank fucking Jesus Christ and every saint.

My sweet father picked me up around the waist and carried me on his one side. I stretched my arms around his neck and looked to see where we were going. This is the way you carry your daughter. He carried me out of the room with one arm under my slick, sweaty ass and took me to my own bedroom. I mean, come the fuck on with this shit. He carefully placed me down onto the bed, and then he took off out of the room.

He didn't even ask me, he just ran into the bathroom I guess, banged my bedroom door into the wall when he ran back in, and shoved cold lube into my asshole with his index finger. He found—and we've never talked about it (we never actually talk about any of this if you'll believe that)—that my asshole was rather stretchy already. It didn't take him long to start throwing his cock—in long, lavish thrusts—into his fucking daughter's precious little tushy. In her cute fucking bedroom in his family's fucking house.

It was the best anal pounding I had ever received, and there was no comparison. He drove my asshole and all the fragile tissue within out of this biosphere and down, far far down into the molten core of the Earth. I looked at all my girly teenage stuff all over the room while he did it, and I just held on for my life. It took him a long time to cum. In the middle, I broke off and we sixtynined in my little bed with the starry purple sheets. I just went right for his lubed, freshly-assholed cock and gagged on it—it was the first time that night that I gotten a chance—and he ate everything I mashed into his fucking face. When my ass felt a little less sore, I flipped over onto my stomach with my legs clenched together, and he put his dad dick right back into my asshole with his legs far apart.

I. Got. Powerfucked.

He could do it. The strength, my god, and the unbelievable stamina of my dad. It was olympic. When he came, oh it was what I wanted. With my asshole I can so very much feel every single spasm of a cumming dick. That's one of the reasons I love it so much. When he finished, he knelt down and sucked his own cum out of my asshole, then rose over me and let it droop in gloopy strings into my open mouth like I was his baby bird. We swapped it between our mouths like slobs a few times, like that was our family's special talent for the talent show, and then I swallowed it for him to see.

After a long while of his further sucking and tasting and experiencing, I passed out on top of him and he must have passed out too. I woke up in the middle of the night in my own bed with one naked leg over the stomach of my father's slumbering body and realized what I had done—what we had just done.

My dad's musky ball smell filled my head and mingled with our faint hint of ass that still sprinkled itself into the stuffy air of my room. I concocted a pretty obvious theory about that sharp ball smell.

I remembered once asking one of the oldest girls, Brinya, what that smell was, that overpowering musk smell that came from even clean balls sometimes. She had just waved the foolish question away, delivering her line with hilarious dryness. "Ease," she said. "Too much deese." She yawned and made the universal hand motion for jerking off, and a bunch of us fell over laughing.

My dad had been jerking off constantly since I first offered myself to him that week ago. I was sure of it. My pussy rained wetness again, and I woke him the fuck up.

Do it again, Dad. Again. Again.

Againnn.

We took turns. We didn't communicate with words. I used everything I had been taught, and everything I had developed, and I fucked a few years off of our lives, for God's fucking sake. I took his cock all the way into my mouth and my little throat, as far as I could possibly get it to go, and I gagged for him. I gagged up ropes of saliva and got out of breath. It was the only time in the night when he really sat still, and I think because of that it didn't last long.

Whenever it was his turn, his brutal savagery descended on me like a dropped heavy net of tensing, grabbing, locking hands and legs. We fucked all over the house—shit, I guess I just do that to people. This time was different, though. It felt to me like he was fucking me in all the places in our family's house that he had always shamefully, horribly imagined he would fuck his own daughter. I don't really know that, because, like I've explained, we don't talk about what we do, we just do what we do.

He fucked me bent over the kitchen table and the sink. He ate my asshole with me on all fours on the dining room table. He fucked me in front of the bathroom mirror. He fucked me and sucked my toes in a corner of the basement where he had penciled my heights at every milestone. He fucked me on the living room floor in front of the TV where just a few months ago on Christmas Day I had laid in a sleeping bag and watched movies. With raw fury he kicked all of the various shit off my brother's computer desk in my brother's fucking bedroom and threw me twirling around on top of it to fuck my skull with my head upside down. In less than than a minute it snapped in half beneath me and his cock stayed in my mouth as we tumbled. I hit my elbow on the floor with a painful freakin' thud and my new father simply did not care. He just kept fucking my mouth in our new uncomfortable position on the half-broken desk and the rough carpet. He fucked my throat as if it were my pussy or just some warm wet hole in a hunk of unfeeling meat, and I deserved it. I cried tears of suffocation and blew saliva out of my snorting nose and gagged deep and guttural for him and I was delivered. I was purged. I was saved.

He sucked on my tongue. He spit on me. He licked my entire body over and over again. He pulled my fucking hair and smelled my mouth. He drank from me something you probably don't want to hear about, though I'd love to write about it. My amazing dad showered me in his cum, and I licked it all up and swallowed it down to my tummy like a good daughter. We fucked. We slept. We fucked. We fucked some more.

The only string of real words he spoke the whole time after we began—thank you for these, Dad, thank you for such a wondrous gift—was when I was riding him, around, oh, maybe 10:00 in the morning. Birds were chirping, and blinding late morning summer sunlight filled the room.

I rode him with a seductive roll of my hips, just gyrating and grinding at a moderate pace with all I had left, and I broke with longstanding tradition. I brought my fist up to my mouth and began to suck my thumb for him, and I let my other hand just dangle with nothing to do. I looked deep into his eyes with a satisfied, lazy sleepiness.

A little of my dad's humanity flickered back into his dark face from its hiding spot within, and he stroked my hair as it fell all around, gleaming and daughter-long and glamorous. He spoke for the first time at all in many hours, and he spoke with a soothing kind of whine, a sweet sound I hadn't expected at all. It wasn't love, though. It was a pure specimen of perversion from the depths of secret fatherhood.

"Ohhh, honeeey," he said, "oh, Colly girrrl. Oh God yesss. Oh my Goddd. Oh, yes, sweetheart. That's what your Daddy wantsss. Yesss, just... like thaaatnngggh—"

He groaned deeply and pushed me up into the air with his hips like a good Daddy and came in me, for the last time of our first time.

That last quote's verbatim.

*****

Epilogue: The Fucking Cost

Fucking my dad was the ultimate sex. He fucked it all out of me. I was his.

Ownership. Power. Servitude.

Ruthlessness.

Sex takes politics and puts them in a speeding blender, and its anyone's best guess what happens to the rules. There aren't any. Everyone on Earth takes delight in a little of this dynamic in the bedroom. When they're fucking.

My dad owned me that night, and he owned me more than anyone else ever did, or would, or could. It's not the same with anything else in the universe. A spouse isn't as owned; a prostitute isn't as owned; I apologize, but even a slave isn't as owned; and if you want to get darker than that in modes of personal power over someone else, you're invited. There is nothing in the underworld of all human sexuality that signifies more ownership than a parent over their offspring.

He made me, after all. He was responsible for my existence. Good parents, like him, gradually let go of their ownership to see their children grow and blossom and become their own. They joyfully let them have their own life, and for the rest of their lives they take pride in that dutiful generosity.

I took my fully-earned ownership up to that house, I put it in a box, I gift-wrapped it, and I gave it back to him.

My dad took it back from me in that house with indescribable fervor, without pity, without any sense of civility or humanity. He used my body more than Keith ever could—disturbing to think about—and he took what was rightfully his to take.

He owned me again. That was the fucking cost. He is not really my dad anymore, though I am absolutely and utterly his daughter. He's something else to me now. We don't talk about it, and I know in my heart that he completely understands what it is. We're not lovers. We're not even really friends. He is now something that I don't know the name for—there's not supposed to be a name for it. I just have to resort to 'dad' because that's all I've got.

It's what all dads secretly want, and it's what all dads pride themselves on never asking for or trying to get. It makes them feel like good fathers. It's why some of them allude to it and joke around like they do, saying things like 'You're not allowed to date until you're 30.'

Good fathers—good dads—desire some kind of credit for simply not keeping ownership of their daughters for their own sexual gratification. Their true goodness comes in simply not voicing that desire in any way, forever.

My dad was so good, so great. He was a wonderful father. He waited patiently with no expectations, not getting that credit, until—with my talent, my new skills, my sheer headstrong tenacity, and my power—I made him fuck me.

That July 25th, I apologized to Jules and told him I couldn't make it to the luau. I had something else to do. I prostituted with glee through to the end of the next summer, getting my fill of the wide variety of other, lesser kinds of sex you can have, and then D&V said our bittersweet goodbyes. I spent more time in Ocean City after that, and in Mahwah and in other places. As for those Christmas in July luaus, well, D&V invited me to be a special guest at those if I was ever around for them, but I never went to another one.

We have our own luaus now. Just us.

Dad and I.

-

xxx Holly

(August 20 - August 28, 2020)