I guess many of you have heard stories of women who were victims of incest, in one form or another. Well, I feel like I'm a victim, too, and I don't know what to do about it. I'm an ordinary, average 38 year old white male, college educated professional, with a mortgage and two cars in the driveway. I'm a member in good standing at my neighborhood church -- or at least I was, and I thought I was doing a good job raising my daughter, Emmie, who had just turned 17. Her mother died when she was ten, and I never felt like the few women I dated after that would make good step-mothers.
I don't know where I went wrong. I need help with this situation, but I don't know where to turn.
Emmie was precocious from the start, and frankly, I was proud of that. She started reading at four and could play computer games at six. She's in the gifted and talented program at school now, in the tenth grade. And she's a lovely young woman. In my eyes, she's very lovely. But not in her own. It pains me to hear her speak of herself as fat and unattractive. For her height, she's not more than twenty pounds overweight, but it is all she sees when she looks in the mirror. She could easily lose it in a few months, if I could just get her to stop eating fast food and candy.
Emmie has never had a boyfriend. Oh, she's very interested in boys all right. I hear her talking to her girl friends over her cell phone in the evening. And I found her laptop one weekend when she was off on a school trip. It was unlocked, and I saw the pictures she had saved. Pictures of very good looking young men with big muscles. And big penises. And some... well... porn. Generally of girls her own age giving oral sex to men. I admit I was shocked. I never in a million years thought of Emmie that way, thought of her having sex. And certainly not of her with an erect penis in her... in her mouth. There were other pictures, of course, pictures of girls engaged in normal intercourse. But they were closeups of large penises penetrating shaved... well... you can guess the rest.
I was about to close the laptop when I saw a button for one of those social network chat websites. You know, where teenagers can goof off at each other and copy homework and flirt. Sure, flirting is to be expected. But not... There was a video clip of Emmie exposing her breasts. I was stunned. I knew she wore a D cup bra. But I had never imagined... She was holding them in her hands like soft, plushy pink grapefruit. Aureoles the size of silver dollars. Squeezing and jiggling them. Offering them to the camera. She was 16 when those pictures were made.
The note underneath said, "I know I'm not pretty, but I'll show you what I have. If you want to see more, just ask."
I was heart broken.
And I was perplexed. She was typically such a cheerful outgoing girl. She wasn't depressed or morose. She went out with her friends fairly often, and loved to bike and play soccer. She had asked me to teach her to play billiards and table tennis. A normal teenager, I thought. But she was "sexting" herself over the Internet. And in my mind, the word "sexting" became "selling."
A month after that incident, I worked up the courage to talk to Emmie about sex and relationships. I thought I did a good job of it. I used my own experiences with her mother to explain things. I even let Emmie know that I knew about the breast video -- and disapproved. And she seemed to take that well. She insisted that lots of girls did that and it wasn't serious. She was still a virgin, even though she masturbated often.
That revelation blind-sided me. Damn, why couldn't I anticipate these things? Of course she... you know, masturbates. She's a teenager. I just wasn't ready to... visualize my own daughter doing that. That was TMI. But my daughter kept on volunteering information about herself that I wasn't ready to hear. She had a vibrator. She sometimes used it while on her cell phone to her friends. While they were masturbating, too. Phone sex. Mutual masturbation. With boys and girls. I interrupted and asked her to be careful, and made all the appropriate warnings. And she smiled and hugged me and said, "I'll be careful, daddy. Don't worry."
I guess that was my first mistake. Uncorking all that intimate knowledge about Emmie that I really wasn't ready to hear. No. I know what my first mistake was. A few nights after that I began stopping at her bedroom door and listening for a few seconds, before I went on to bed. I shouldn't have done that. I was putting myself in harm's way. Big mistake.
A week later, I passed by her door and heard her voice. She giggled. She was talking to someone. I heard her repeat the word "Yes" three times. And then she moaned. It was a lascivious moan, a series of sensual moans and grunts, unmistakeably the sounds of a young girl having an extended orgasm.
I hurried to my bedroom and settled in under the covers in the dark. I put it all out of my mind, but my stupid penis didn't get the message. It was hard -- and stayed hard, no matter what I did. Then I made my second mistake. I masturbated. I masturbated while replaying Emmie's video in my mind. Watching my daughter offer her warm, soft, D-cup titties to me in her hands. To me, her father. And I ejaculated explosively, my eyes scrunched so tight that I saw stars.
Well, that changed everything. It changed everything between us. I couldn't see Emmie as just an innocent little girl any more. She tended to wear simple dresses in the house, somewhat oversized dresses held up by shoulder straps, or held up by an elastic band that fit around her chest just above her breasts. And when she bent over, like when she was on all fours on the living room carpet, playing with her dog, she would reveal cleavage. And with her D-cup breasts, that was quite a lot of cleavage. I started glancing at her breasts when she bent over, and up her dress when her knees parted -- things like that. And she caught me doing it.
It seemed to happen more and more often, until it was happening every day. Playing with the dog, innocently exposing more and more of her breasts to me, rolling on the floor, exposing her panties to me. I should have said something, asked her to be more modest, but I didn't. I noticed she wasn't wearing a bra anymore in the evenings. I said nothing. She bought a new house dress for lounging around, and it had a neckline that scooped down much further than her other dresses. I said nothing.
By then, I was masturbating several times a week. Visualizing Emmie's breasts. Imagining them in my hands. Imagining my erect penis sliding between them. The magnitude of my orgasms kept getting bigger and stronger.
I got an invitation. It was an email message inviting me to join one of the dozens of social networking sites. Blah blah. But I stopped just before I hit the delete button. It was the same site that my daughter was on -- and it was from 2shy2chat, Emmie's avatar name. This time I knew it was a mistake. I knew it was a bad mistake even before my cursor went to the Accept button and clicked on it. Ten minute later, I had an avatar identity, with some default picture, and some silly name. I logged out and went to the garage and lifted weights. I felt dirty.
Next day, I signed in, my hands shaking. Emmie had not only accepted, but had given me "intimate friend" status. There was her page spread out before me. Including her gallery of pictures and videos. The pictures were ordinary, except for two that were shot in a mirror. Her face was concealed, but one breast was partially bared. There were three videos, accessible by only friends of intimate status. With shaking hands, I opened one. I had seen it before, Emmie fondling her breasts.
The second one showed Emmie moving around so that her legs disappeared on either side of the camera. She was up on one elbow on her bed, and she pulled up the hem of her dress, revealing her sky blue panties. There were sounds, mostly rustling noises. Then I caught her saying, "wait a second, almost there," and her hand pulled her dress up further, and she spread her legs apart. And her hand... I caught my breath. And her hand slipped under the crotch of her panties. I was aware of my penis getting very hard. And my daughter's hand pulled her panties to the side, revealing her genitals. Two fingers straddled her privates and then pulled apart her labia, revealing the pink entrance to her vagina.
Another burst of sound caught my attention, "I shaved it just yesterday. How do you like it?"
I closed my browser and ran to my bathroom. I got naked as fast as I could and got in the shower. Once the water got nice and hot, I lathered up my throbbing erection and masturbated. Three times. And then I cried.
Okay, I decided not to go to her website page ever again. And I stopped looking down or up her dresses, no matter how much she revealed. If there was a flash of panties, I got up and went for a glass of iced tea or something. And I started praying. Oh, I always prayed something. You know, god bless Emmie, god bless my sisters, god keep the economy going long enough for me to put Emmie through college, that sort of thing. But now it was serious: God, please help me stop thinking of Emmie's breasts. And her shaved pussy. Please help me stop masturbating every night thinking of my daughter's naked body.
And I was. I was visualizing sex with Emmie every single night, masturbatiing myself to at least one explosive orgasm every night. Sometimes two. But the prayers seemed to help after a while. I finally felt that I was gaining some control.
On a Friday night, Emmie had Teresa and Tommy over to the house. They were brother and sister and were in Emmie's Advanced English Lit class at school. They spent the evening in Emmie's room, and made quite a bit of noise. Things were bumping and scraping and clattering, but they seemed to be having a good time. Some time Saturday, I saw that the youngsters had rearranged Emmie's bedroom. Did a great job, too.
That night, as I slipped into bed, I prayed God to save me from my lusts and closed my eyes. And I heard a voice. Emmie's voice. With a flash of understanding, I realized that now Emmie's bed was solidly up against the wall that separated our rooms.
