I wrote this story after a reader responded to my "Angela the Naughty Altar Girl" series. "Cindy" asked me to write out the stories of her youth. We exchanged a few emails during which she revealed to me her molestation by her father when she was a little girl.
Hi, my name is Cindy and I'm twenty-five years old. I'm a graduate student at the University of ****** (deleted). I wanted to share my stories about growing up with my dad. Depending on your point of view, this is a story about child abuse and molestation. Some days I think back and my mind is made up that I was abused. Other days I'm not so sure.
My dad and I lived alone in rural Montana. My mother had left us when I was less than a year old. You hear stories every day about how tough it is for working single moms. Let me tell you that being a working single dad is just as difficult.
My dad did office work for a local contracting company. The pay was not terrible but it definitely wasn't enough for a single parent. He eventually had to take on part-time job at the local Wal-Mart. Even so, when I was growing up I remember we had to save money at every turn. I usually wore cheap thrift store clothes and our meals were never elaborate. Plenty of macaroni and cheese with hot dogs, I remember.
Being a single father, my dad told me in later years that a lot of his parenting came from improvising on the spot. His methods were almost always non-traditional. For example, he knew it was important for me to eat vegetables but he never had time to prepare them. I drank gallons of V-8 for the first five years of my life. Once that got too expensive, my dad bought his own ingredients and made homemade V-8 juice. It wasn't until I was a teenager that I began eating solid vegetables.
That's one example of my non-traditional upbringing. The others are as follows.
I. The Butt Plug
After my mother left, my father was faced with the difficulties of raising a newborn baby. As he told me later, one of the greatest expenses for newborns was diapers. For the first two years, my father was able to afford disposable diapers. Once I turned two, his finances were so depleted that he started using cloth diapers. This worked okay but as a working dad he never had time to wash the diapers. It didn't help that we had no washing machine.
As he told me once I was older, the peed-on diapers were easy to clean. It was mostly a matter of letting them soak. It was the poop that was more stubborn. After staying up until one a.m. one night cleaning diapers, my dad hit upon a rather unique solution. With his pen knife, he trimmed a taper candle to a few inches and notched a bulb out of one end by shaving away the wax. He then wrapped the whole thing in plastic Saran Wrap. There it was: a homemade butt plug.
As he told me this story, my dad said he felt very ashamed and embarrassed for being such a terrible father. But what could he do? He worked two jobs for almost 70 hours a week and there was simply no time to clean diapers and make sure they were properly sanitized..
With a bit of KY jelly, my dad lubed up the homemade butt plug. Taking me out of my crib, he took off my diapers and laid me down on my stomach. With very tender care, he told me, he gently worked the butt plug into my rectum and reapplied my diaper. He then put me back in my crib and went to bed himself, knowing he had to wake up at six a.m. the next day.
When his alarm went off that next morning, my dad checked on me as he always did when he first got up. My diaper was wet but there was no sign of any poop. The butt plug was working. Lining my crib with newspaper, my dad removed my butt plug and put me back in the crib. He then went to get ready for the morning.
By the time he came back, I had done my "other" business but the newspaper saved the day. My dad just had to clean me up and throw out the newspaper. He apparently found the solution to the diaper problem.
So it began. My dad kept a butt plug in me all the time. Four times a day (when he woke up, around lunchtime, around dinner time, and before bed) he would remove the butt plug and place me in a newspaper-covered crib to let me do my business. Afterwards he would clean both me and the crib. Finally, before putting on a diaper, he would re-insert the butt plug using fresh Saran Wrap and more lube. It became a ritual.
It was about a six months later when my dad ran across an adult toy catalog. Inside he found a butt plug kit that had various sizes. After saving money for four months, he finally ordered it. When it arrived, he chose the smallest butt plug and replaced the candle plug he had fashioned. I had graduated to using real sex toys before age three.
This is why, from age thirteen back to as far as I can remember, I always had a butt plug inserted in my anus. It sounds uncomfortable but I basically grew up with it so I never noticed anything out of the ordinary. It was your standard butt plug with a thicker bulbous tip followed by a flared end that prevented the plug from going all the way in. It was small and discreet enough that I could wear a swimsuit and it was completely undetectable. I didn't even walk funny because I was so used to it.
Once I was old enough to be potty trained, my dad taught me how to remove the butt plug myself. I also learned how to carefully clean it with soap and water before using a bit of lube to re-insert it. During potty training, my dad kept using the butt plug as a backup precaution but even after potty training, I kept the butt plug inside me. I distinctly remember my father taking away the butt plug when I was four years old. I pouted and cried for days because it just felt strange and foreign to have an empty rectum. My sphincter muscle had grown accustomed to clenching the butt plug. Some kids had security blankets. I had a security butt plug.
Once I was old enough to begin kindergarten, my dad explained to me that the butt plug had to be kept secret. Not all children wore butt plugs, he told me. At that age, I didn't fully understand the concept but I kept the secret all through my school years. I'm pretty sure I was the only kindergarten student who carried a small tube of KY jelly in my backpack though.
Each birthday I would receive, in addition to other small gifts, a new butt plug. This was a coming-of-age necessity because I would outgrow my butt plug, just like I would clothes or shoes. My dad kept all my old butt plugs so even today I can chart my growth. The earliest plugs from my toddler years were no larger than an adults thumb. By the time I was five, the plug had grown larger to about the size of a bulbous hot dog. My butt plug for my seventh birthday had grown to a decent cucumber size. By the time I was ten, I was using a full-blown adult butt plug.
Growing up with a butt plug had its occasional problems. I went to a sleepover once when I was about eight or nine and my dad had insisted I leave the butt plug at home. I think he was worried I would accidentally be found out. Anyway, it was an uncomfortable time for me the entire evening. It was just a funny sensation without the butt plug, like taking off a ring you've worn for a long time or going out in public without underwear for the first time. I couldn't sleep at all that night because I felt so empty.
I ended up "improvising" with my hairbrush handle. There were a dozen or so girls at the slumber party and we were spread out over the living room in sleeping bags. I had been tossing and turning all night and it wasn't until two in the morning that I got the idea to use my hairbrush. As quietly as I could, I felt around in the darkness until I found my overnight bag. I didn't have any lubricant with me so I sucked on the handle to coat it with my saliva. Not as slippery as KY but the hairbrush handle slid into my anus with some gentle maneuvering.
Comforted to feel that familiar sensation in my butt, I soon fell asleep. When I woke up, I took care to remove the hairbrush and hide it.
II. The Sleeping Problem
My dad told me, again once when I was older, that I was quite the difficult newborn when it came to sleeping. I would only sleep for two or three hours at a clip and then I would wake up and cry. When this happens with traditional families, the mother usually gets up to nurse which quiets the baby. This, of course, was not an option for my dad.
His solution for my crying was to masturbate me. That's it. No mincing words there. It started right after my mom left us when I was six months old. If I woke up in the middle of the night, my dad would prepare a bottle of formula and feed me. To calm me further, he would start to rub my little pussy.
Studies have shown that infants are capable of orgasm. There is even documented studies of newborns, even fetuses, masturbating. I don't know whether or not my father knew this but he touched me anyway. Using some lubricant or saliva (whichever was handy), he would rub his finger against my baby slit while rocking and shushing me. The touch of his finger would instantly calm me and he would continue until I spasmed gently in his arms.
After my orgasm, my father simply laid me in the crib and I would fall asleep like a little angel, he said. My father used this method to calm me over the years and it continued until I was thirteen. I have early, fuzzy memories of being four years old and my dad masturbating me before putting me to bed. I remember I would pull my pajamas around my ankles for him and then cuddle up next to a stuffed animal. My legs would be willingly spread wide as my dad massaged my "cunny," as we called it. My excitement would grow until it exploded an orgasm shook my body.
Afterward, my dad would pull my pajamas back on and tuck me in. I never had problems falling asleep after an orgasm. To this very day, an orgasm has a very narcotic effect on me. Guys rarely have to waste time with post-sex pillow talk with me! On the other hand, it's usually a bad sign if I'm wide awake after sex...
My dad's sexual touching of me never got forceful or weird. He never instigated it at all. I was always the one asking him to do it and he rarely said no to me. I almost always had a masturbation session with my dad before bed for the first twelve years of my life. If I was bad or naughty, my dad would punish me by denying me his touch. I had learned how to masturbate by myself by the time I was five but it never felt as nice as my father's touch. It always felt so much more loving and comforting when he did it for me.
My dad's masturbating of me even functioned as a reward. If I got straight As on my report card, I would receive a blissful orgasm from my father and then we would go out for ice cream. It was the same thing if I scored a goal with my intramural soccer team.
Orgasms were my reward from my father, but also a way he would comfort me. When I was eleven and entering the "awkward" stage of girlhood, I had plenty of cruel girlfriends who would sometimes be nice to me and then sometimes turn on me. My dad picked me up after school one day when I had experienced a particularly malicious and spiteful recess with some girls who had made teased me for my thrift store fashions. I sobbed the entire drive home while my dad tried to console me.
After unsuccessfully offering a comforting word, my dad pulled the truck over to the side of the road. Pulling me close, he held me tight as I wept into his shoulder. His arms were rubbing my neck and I still remember how my breast buds pressed hard into his chest. Neither of us said a word as he slipped a knowing hand under the elastic waistband of my underwear. Anyone could have driven by and caught us but no one did. My dad expertly massaged my clit until I came hard, my arms clenched tight around him and my hips bucking against his leg.
Afterwards, he gave me a fatherly kiss on the forehead and we continued home. The next day he bought me a new outfit from the Gap. I thought he was the greatest dad ever.
III. Fatherly Love
Looking back to my childhood, I remember spending a lot of time alone. My father worked during the day and into the night, rarely returning home before eight p.m. My dad did his best to be a good parent and spend time with me, even if it meant just watching TV together.
One of our nighttime rituals was to take a bath and then a watch some TV before going to bed. When I was a toddler, my dad got into the practice of taking both our showers at the same time and this continued as I grew older. I have an early memory of being maybe five years old and being in the shower with my dad. He always removed my butt plug during baths and he would thoroughly clean me.
For my part, I stood idly by while my dad showered. His naked body was nothing new to me since I had grown up with it. Some little girls have fascinations with penises because it's so taboo and foreign but to me there was nothing to strange about being face to face with my dad's penis. Sometimes I would soap it up for him and giggle as it grew hard beneath my touch. But other than that, it was simply another appendage to me, like an earlobe or a fingernail. I did think it was odd that my dad had a penis and I didn't, but I soon accepted it as a normal fact of life, like how some animals could fly but I could not.
After showering we would towel off, put on our bathrobes (I would take a second to re-insert my butt plug), and plunk ourselves down in the easy chair in front of the TV. If it was summertime, we usually wouldn't bother with the robes and I would cuddle up, naked, against my father's bare skin. I remember summer nights like this one being the best. We would cuddle up and sometimes I would fall asleep right there in my dad's lap and he would later carry me to my bed and tuck me in.
Other times, he would masturbate me as I reclined against his naked body. That was always blissful too and again I usually fell asleep afterwards. Sometimes my dad would get an erection, sometimes not. For as long as I can remember, I would usually idly play with my father's erection, pulling it this way and that, pretending it was a rudder control of an airplane. Sometimes I would recline against him and let if press between my legs, enjoying the heat of it against my cunny.
My relationship to his penis changed when I was six years old, however. After our shower one night, I was putting lubricant on my butt plug so I could push it back into my anus. Clumsily, I dropped it and it landed in the toilet. Frantic, I yelled for my dad.
He came in to see what the fuss was about. I was on the verge of tears at this point. My dad fished the butt plug out of the toilet and I reached for it eagerly. However, he told me that it would be necessary to let it soak in bleach overnight in order to disinfect it. I protested, telling him I wouldn't be able to sleep without it.
He suggested I use last year's butt plug but again I protested, saying I had outgrown it and I was used to this one. As gently as he could, my father told me I would have to wait until tomorrow to put the butt plug back inside my rectum. Lifting my chin, he told me to be a big girl. Swallowing the lump in my throat, I tried not to cry.
As we cuddled and watched TV that night, I was still feeling quite upset over my butt plug. I know it sounds silly but it was my security blanket. A few tears rolled down my cheeks as I cuddled against my dad's chest. Brushing my hair with his fingers, my dad asked me to bring him the tube of KY.
I went to fetch it and handed it to him, not asking what it was for. He lifted me back onto his lap and let me recline against his body. Kissing the top of my head, he told me not to worry. We continued watching TV but I was still upset about the butt plug. I didn't really notice my dad's erection as it grew hard and poked my thigh. I had seen and felt it numerous times before. It was nothing new.
My father told me to stand up, lifting me off his lap. I stood in front of the armchair and kept watching TV with my back turned to him. After a moment, he told me to move closer to him. I glanced back and saw him leaning forward off of the armchair and spreading his legs slightly, allowing his hard penis to jut straight out from his body. I noticed his penis was now glistening with lubricant.
He directed me to turn around and bend over a little. Obediently, I bent over and presented my little butt to my dad, curious to what he had planned. I felt his hands part my butt cheeks and a slippery finger press against my anal ring. His finger slipped easily inside my rectum, the muscles pliant after years of the butt plug.
After probing inside me for a moment, he withdrew his finger. I soon felt something bigger, something rubbery yet hard pressing against my anal rosette. With years of practice, I willingly relaxed my sphincter muscles to allow the intruder inside me. The object slipped further and further inside me until I felt my butt touch my dad's stomach. It felt much too large to be his finger. Craning my head to look behind me, I confirmed my suspicion.
My butt was resting against my dad's midsection. His penis was now burrowed into my tight anal opening. I could feel its warmth inside my body. My dad asked me if I felt okay.
"It feels really nice, Daddy."
Carefully, my father lifted me up and together we maneuvered ourselves back into the armchair. I reclined against my dad's chest again, my sphincter muscles content that they were again clutching something. From time to time, I could feel my dad's penis twitch inside me. Comforted, I soon fell asleep with my father's penis lodged inside me. When I woke up that morning, we were still reclining in the armchair with a light blanket on top of us. I still remember that blissful morning and how I felt so content and loved with my dad's penis still buried deep inside me.
From that day on, my dad and I had a new activity to add to our father-daughter time before bed. Sometimes we would just cuddle and watch TV in our bathrobes. Other times we cuddled naked, enjoying each other's warm touch. Occasionally, my dad would masturbate me, rubbing my hairless cunny until I stiffened and bucked against him. At other times, my dad would get an erection and I would ask if I could put his penis inside me. If he agreed, I would joyfully jump off his lap and fetch the lubricant. Returning, I would remove my butt plug and then use lubricant to prepare his penis. Once ready, I would impale myself on him and we would continue watching TV.
I remember watching lots of TV like that, reclined on my dad's lap with his penis hard inside me. We got a secondhand VCR and some kids' movies at a garage sale when I was eight. I spent that summer happily watching Sleeping Beauty, The Little Mermaid, and Snow White over and over while sitting on dad's lap. I didn't like watching TV alone and there were countless times I would run up to him on a weekend with a videocassette in one hand and the tube of KY Jelly in the other. To be honest, The Land Before Time still gets me wet to this very day. And homesick too.
I always loved the closeness I felt with my dad inside me. It felt so loving and so natural. Some girls have memories of going out for ice cream or going bowling with their fathers. We didn't have the money to spend. Instead, this was our own special way of spending time together and it made me feel so loved and happy. My favorite was when he would masturbate me with his penis firmly lodged inside my anus. His penis inside me was definitely the cherry on top of the sundae. It made a good thing even better to feel so close to him. From that early age I was able to mentally connect orgasms and love and emotion.
Looking back, I find it astounding that we continued this activity for years before my father ejaculated inside me. I can't imagine what kind of control and self-restraint he must have had. There had never been any sort of hanky-panky because I was content to merely have his penis inserted. My dad never suggested that it might feel pleasurable for me or him if he thrusted.
I still remember the very first time he ejaculated his semen inside my rectum. I was nine years old. We had both fallen asleep on the armchair. I woke up to find his hard penis still buried to the hilt inside me. My dad was still asleep but I was playfully bored so I used my sphincter muscles to squeeze his penis inside me. This is what I did with my butt plug when I was bored in class. It always made me feel nice and warm inside to squeeze like this.
It felt even nicer with my dad's penis though. My strong muscles massaged the hard penis inside me. Squirming a bit, I found I could grind on the penis, letting it move in and out of me. Enjoying the sensation, I started fucking my dad's penis.
By now my dad was awake. I felt his hands caressing my back. He didn't protest at my motions but I could feel his breathing become little ragged gasps. Not knowing why except that it felt good, I continued fucking his penis. Suddenly I felt my dad's hands clutch tightly against my hips. He moaned softly and his penis twitched violently inside me. I could feel a hotness spread inside my rectum.
My dad slowed my motions until understood he wanted me to stop. I reclined against his chest while he recovered. When he pulled his softening penis from my rectum, I could feel a trail of a sticky fluid follow it.
I asked him what it was.
That day, my dad explained in detail about sex and human anatomy. I understood most of it but the lesson I took with me was that I had given my father an orgasm. I knew how nice it felt when he gave me an orgasm so, from that point on, I was determined to make my dad happy.
Once or twice a week, I would remove my butt plug and engage in anal sex with my dad. We eventually moved from the armchair to his bed where I learned more positions. I soon grew to enjoy being on my hands and knees as my dad gently worked his penis inside my anal ring until he ejaculated, filling me with his hot semen.
However, that was as far as our sex play ever went. My father never performed oral sex on me. He never asked me to give him a blowjob. The possibility of vaginal sex was never discussed. It was only anal sex and him masturbating me with his fingers. And of course we still watched TV almost every night in our special position. Sometimes this would lead to thrusting sex, but more often than not, we just enjoyed the warmth and closeness.
It wasn't until I turned thirteen that our sexual activities began to decrease in frequency. I had begun to read girls' magazines like YM or Seventeen. It was there that I learned how abnormal my childhood had been. I read stories about girls who had been molested by their brothers, fathers, or grandfathers. Girls who had been forced to do things they didn't want to by their boyfriends or priests or next-door neighbors. I began to comprehend the concept of morality and I understood that sexual activity with my father was wrong.
It's a difficult age, being thirteen. More than ever, I just wanted to fit in, to be normal. I remember the last time I took out my butt plug and swore never to use it again. It was difficult for a while but I eventually adjusted. My dad and I stopped showering together. We would watch TV together but we would sit in separate armchairs.
The next four years of my life were the most difficult ever. I felt humiliated and betrayed that my dad had done these things to me. I felt he had cheated me out of a normal childhood. But I was torn. Up until I was thirteen, I was undeniably happy. I did a lot of soul-searching during those lonely years when I simultaneously felt ashamed, miserable, outcast, and, most of all, longing to be loved again.
My dad never complained that the sexual nature of our relationship had stopped. To his credit, he never again asked for any sexual favors or tried to coerce me. I guess my dad technically molested me during my childhood but I'm not sure what that means. Did it matter that I was a willing participant? Did it matter that my father should have known better? He didn't force me to do anything. But nor was I given the opportunity to have a normal childhood.
My dad and I still talk but there are certain subjects we avoid. Actually, since talking of my childhood is completely off limits, we're like strangers who are forced to be together. But I guess I'm lucky because I didn't become an anti-heroine poster-child for child abuse. I never became outrageously promiscuous or got hooked on drugs. I got good grades in high school, went to college, and I've got a steady boyfriend of four years. There was no lasting damage. If anything, I just prefer anal sex to vaginal sex and, thankfully, my
boyfriend doesn't mind.