My name is Janine Simms, Janey for short. I am 30 years
old. I live here in Georgia, in the midst of the Savannah
marshlands. I live with my younger brother Timmy, and my
daughter Hope. We live a quiet but peaceful life.
For all these years, I have been silent about what had
happened to me, trying to forget; but of late, the
memories have been coming back, filling me with haunting
pain. I figure the only way I can ever escape these
memories is to tell my story to someone else. And
so…here’s my story.
I grew up in the woods of Pennsylvania, the eldest
daughter of Rupert and Erin Simms. I had one younger
brother; Timothy-he was the most adorable little sibling.
Our parents were normal rural parents.
Sundays we’d all attend service like all the other
families in the area, Mom was an active member of the
church choir. We were everything you’d expect from the
average American family. That all changed during the
winter of my fourteenth year. Mom got stricken with
cancer, at the young age of 36. I had just turned 14
years old, and Timmy was 3. It was now only us two kids
and dad.
When Mom died, we all took it really hard. But we never
really shared our grief together, as a family. Timmy was
only 3, so he was too young for her death to really
impact him, and as for Dad, well; he just got really
moody, and spent most of his time outside the house.
While he had never really been the warmest father to us,
even while Mom had been alive, he was almost distant now.
Many nights, he would come home drunk, the smell of booze
and cigarettes all over his clothing. For the most part,
it was just me and Timothy at home. I wound up having to
do most of the housework. I was only 14 then, and most of
the times, it was just us two fending for ourselves.
My body started to really develop about the time I turned
fifteen. I think Dad also became aware of my development
then, because I began to notice him eyeing my chest-at
first furtively, but then more and more openly as time
went on. We were never really a cuddling type of family,
so I knew things weren’t quite okay when he started
asking me for hugs, or when Timmy and I would be watching
a movie in the living room, and he’d walk in, sit on his
couch, and pat his lap and ask for his little girl to sit
in Daddy’s lap.
A few months after my fifteenth birthday, I’d come home
from school to find him still there, snoozing on the
couch with a newspaper and an opened can of beer.
Usually, he would have left for work about a half-hour
earlier, and I would come home to find Timmy sleeping. I
would usually do my homework and cook dinner for Timmy
and me. Dad usually got home around midnight. For some
reason, he was hadn’t left for work today. It turned out
that his construction company had laid him off for
drinking on the job.
Well, from that point on, he was at home a lot of the
time. After a few weeks, I started getting worried about
when he would find a job, and then the weeks turned to a
month. When we were really low on money for groceries, I
finally got up the courage to ask him if he’d found a job
yet, since we needed money for groceries. Rather than
reply, he’d reached into his pocket and tossed a check at
me, before turning back to the television and his can of
beer. It was an envelope, containing a welfare check for
the month of July.
With Dad hanging around the house all the time now, I
began to feel more and more uncomfortable with his roving
eyes. He started commenting frequently on how I’d grown
into such a fine woman; meanwhile his eyes would be
staring at my chest or my buttocks. He took to finding
opportunities to brush against me ‘accidentally’.
Once, after dinner, while I was washing the dishes, he
came up behind me, asking if I needed help with the
dishes. Before I could refuse, he’d slipped his arms
under mine from behind, and was pressed up against me, so
that I had to lean forward toward the sink. With a start,
I could feel the heat of his groin right up against my
buttocks. I remember gasping, and him chuckling, as he
gave a quick grind of his groin against me. Then he’d
left the room.
By the time I turned sixteen, my father had still not
found a job. Every now and then he’d go for interviews,
just to satisfy the welfare agencies, to show them he was
earnest in trying to find employment, but he stayed
unemployed, and lounged around at home. Dad became less
subtle in his overtures toward me. Frequently, he’d
comment on how nicely my chest was filling out, or he’d
eye my crotch with such intense scrutiny right in front
of me. At every opportunity, he tried to cop a feel of my
breasts, or grope my buttocks, always trying to make it
seem like an accidentally.
“Dad, I’m trying to doing homework… ” or “Dad…I need
to cook dinner…” These became my frequent excuses to
get him to stop. However they became less and less
effective. As the months went by, he started getting
bolder and more demanding.
Once, on a Friday night, while watching TV after dinner,
after Timmy had gone to bed, he said “Jane, come here and
sit on your Daddy’s lap. I haven’t hugged my little girl
in such a long time.”
The way he said it, in that tone of voice, I knew he
wouldn’t take no for an answer. I remember walking
reluctantly over to him, and then facing away from him,
gently seated my right buttock on his left thigh, so that
I was only partially up against him. Even then, I could
feel his hairy thighs against mine, since I was wearing
shorts at the time. What came next was a shock for me,
since he had never done anything so obviously sexual
before.
I remember gasping out loud, startled, almost losing
balance, when suddenly, his thick hands were encircling
my hips. Chuckling, he lifted me high and up and twisted
me around until I was facing him, with my legs to each
side of him. Grunting appreciatively, his hands still
tight around my waist, he pulled me downward onto him,
settling my pelvis down right against his, so that our
crotches were fused together.
Now, both my legs were to each side of his legs, so that
I was in effect, straddling him. Gasping in fright, I
tried to lift myself off of him, but I had no purchase to
push against. My feet were off the floor, and when I
braced my arms across the arms of the couch to lift
myself, he just pulled down on my hips, settling me down
again.
“Now that’s a good girl,” he moaned, as he grounded
himself against me. Through his boxer shorts and my own
shorts, I could feel the hard bulge of his manhood. As he
crushed my crotch against him, he began humping back and
forth. With each forward push of his hips, he’d pressed
down on my hips, so that I could feel his bulge through
the thin material of our clothing.
“Daddy! Let me go! I’m too old to be sitting on your lap!
Please!” I whispered frantically, in tears. I didn’t want
to wake up Timothy, but I was scared to death.
“Soon… baby… soon…” his words began to come in
gasps, as his buckling quickened in pace. In
embarrassment, I could feel his penis through his shorts.
It felt huge. His constant rubbing caused a wedgie in my
own shorts, and I could feel my panties riding up into my
crotch, between my lips. After maybe a minute of heated
crotch grinding, he groaned loudly. His hands came up
behind my back, pressing our bodies close together. I
could feel my breasts mashed flat against his massive
chest, even as he gluing our crotches together.
The large bulge of his manhood, which I could feel
pressed through the thin material of my shorts and his
boxer shorts, was wedged right up against my crotch.
Stunned, I could feel it throbbing wildly, as if it had a
life of its own. I could feel the heat of his groin
through the thin layers of clothing, as it spasmed.
Groaning, he held me motionless against him, while he
finished his orgasm.
After a few minutes, his grip on me slackened, as he
exhaled noisily, leaning back onto the couch. Sobbing, I
remembered scrambling off his lap, and running up the
stairs to my room, and quickly locking the door behind
me. It was only when I was inside, huddled on bed, that I
realized my entire crotch area was all damp.
I knew from the sex education classes at school what had
happened, but the reality of it didn’t make it any more
palatable. Removing my shorts, I examined my panties.
They were soaked wetly with my dad’s cum too, so that
they looked sheer, making my enflamed vaginal lips
visible. I remember thinking that I had my father’s sperm
soaking through my shorts and panties, and my crotch was
now damp with it. Scared, I rushed to the bathroom and
wetted a towel to wipe myself clean.
The next day, Dad acted like the whole thing had never
happened. And as far as I was concerned, it didn’t
either. Incidents like these, I learned to put in the
back of my mind.
These incidences didn’t stop though. Rather, they became
more and more frequent. He might be passing by me in the
hallway, then without warning, he would reach forward
with one hand, cupping my crotch and wriggling his
fingers through my pants to massage me down there. Or
other times, when I’d come out of the bathroom cloaked in
a towel, he’d be there waiting, eyeing me.
As soon as I walked passed him, he would pull on my
towel, leaving me naked in the hallway. I always ran into
my room then, amidst his chuckling. Thankfully, he never
pursued. I learned then to take my showers when he was
asleep, or he was outside the house.
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