Daughter’s prison – part 3

When I came to, I was in my bed, alone. Sunlight filled
the room, brightening it. I yawned, kicking off the
covers. Blearily, I glanced at the alarm clock. It was
noon. God damn it. I never wake up this late! I sat
upright on my bed, then doubled over in pain, as needles
of pain shot through my crotch. With sudden alarm, the
events of last night came rushing back to me. The image
of my father, stroking his raging cock, and getting up
off my bed and walking toward me.

Oh god. It couldn’t have happened. Please… this was all
a dream. Even, as I swept the covers to the floor to
reveal my lower region, the fierce burning in my crotch
told me something bad had happened. I gazed at my
panties. The crotch area was stained slightly yellowish,
and dotted with deep brown spots, and damp.

My eyes then focused on some small brown spots on the bed
sheet. Blood stains, I realized, as a coldness settled
over me. My eyes told me what my body already suspected,
but my mind had refused to believe. I was no longer a
virgin. I got out of bed, grabbing a change of clothing,
and walked unsteadily into to the bathroom. I could hear
the television and occasional sounds of laughter from my
father and Timmy downstairs.

My crotch was burning. I locked the bathroom door behind
me. Sitting on the toilet seat, I hesitantly drew down my
panties down to my ankles, and then completely off.
Holding it up toward me, I could see that the entire
crotch area of my panties swamped with a sticky wetness.
Small spots of dried blood stains dotted the crotch area.

The heady scent of sex assaulted me, and I almost gagged
as I quickly tossed the soiled panties to the floor, and
focused my attention to my burning crotch. Bending over
forwards, I could see my vaginal lips, glaring back with
an angry raw color. A mucous-like film coated whole of my
vagina, matting the downy hairs around my crotch. My eyes
focused on the raw glistening lips of my vagina. The
inner petals protruded slightly outwards, something that
had never happened before. I held my breath. I had to
make sure.

Gingerly, I wiggled my index and middle fingers carefully
into my vagina. I inhaled sharply, feeling a fiery pain
as my raw wet lips brushed against my fingers. I felt
around, seeking the place where my hymen should be. It
was gone, completely. I fought back tears. No use crying
over spilt milk, I tried to tell myself, but the tears
flowed anyway. Wiping the wetness from my eyes so I could
see, I delved further. My two fingers slid in deeper than
would have been possible in the past, lubricated with the
slimy wetness I could feel all around in my vagina.

Fighting the urge to gag, I wondered how much of his
stuff was in me. Within my vagina, I spread my two
fingers slightly, waiting. Time slowed to a crawl, but
eventually, some thick milky-colored fluid oozed out. I
stared at it. Parts of it were gathered in clots of white
spunk, other areas were almost clear. Thin streaks of
pink could be seen, which I knew to be my blood. I sat
there on the toilet, for almost an hour, watching as my
father’s sperm dripped slowly out of me.

For the next few days, I stayed in my room whenever I
could, coming out only make sandwiches for Timmy, or cook
dinner for all of us. Like all the times before, Dad
pretended the whole thing had never happened, bantering
as usual with Timmy and me. But I knew my Dad; he was
just a ticking time bomb, and I dreaded each day that
passed, wondering if this would be the day that he would
blow off.

I was fairly certain that he’d drugged me that night–
there was no other possible explanation for my sudden
loss of consciousness–and just to be safe, I’d dump out
all the open containers of juices and milk in the
refrigerator, in case he’d slipped something in it. He
probably wouldn’t have done that, since that would
endanger Timmy, but I didn’t want to leave anything to
chance.

A month past and Dad actually sobered up a bit. Twice
this month, he’d actually gone out for second interviews
with potential employers. He told all this to me and
Timmy during dinner, and I actually started to feel that
maybe Dad was turning around. During this time, to my
immense relief, my period arrived on schedule. It was the
middle of summer, and things were starting to look up.
I’d gotten a part-time job at the library, and was saving
up some money.

It was the first day of August, about a couple of weeks
away from Timmy’s sixth birthday. I’d been making some
clothes for him, since he would be starting school this
fall. I had designed the clothes by copying the designs I
saw from the Bloomingdale’s catalog. Already, I’d made
three long-sleeve shirts, a pair of shorts, and two
trousers, and was working on the last pair of trousers
with the remaining cloth I had left. Outside, I could
hear the laughter of Timmy, as he and our neighbor’s two
kids roamed about in the backyard.

There was a knocking on the door, and then it opened as
my Dad walked in. I tensed immediately. One look at his
sweaty face and his lethargic steps was enough to tell me
he’d been hitting the bottle again. Something must have
happened to get him like this. I glanced furtively at the
open door, wondering if I could make it past him if I
needed to.

He surveyed the room, his eyes finally resting on me,
stooped over the sewing machine in my room. “What’s that
for!” he gestured at the Timmy’s new clothes, which I’d
strewn across the bed. “Seems a little too small for you,
but hey, I won’t be complainin’ when I see you struttin’
around in em’,” he chuckled. I explained to him that they
were for Timmy, and I was planning to give it to him next
week for his birthday.

He just grunted, and to my growing bewilderment, started
moving about my room, examining my things. He gazed at
the poster James Dean poster I had on the wall, sneering
and muttering incoherent remarks. My eyes followed him
around the room. What was he doing in here? Why was he
drunk again? He’d been sober for an entire month.
Something must have happened. Maybe his job interview
fell through, I thought.

He stopped in front of my wall calendar, that I’d pin to
the wall, next to my dresser mirror. Through the
reflection, I could see his eyes as they swept across the
calendar page. Grunting, his finger tapped at some of the
words scribbled on the calendar.

“Timmy’s sixth birthday.” he read, his words slurred. His
finger traced the red circle I’d drawn around it. “What’s
this ‘X’ for,” he said, tapping his thick finger on a red
‘X’ that appeared in the box a couple of days before
Timmy’s birthday. I felt my face flushing red. “That’s
when I get my period,” I said in a bare whisper.

“Speak up, I can’t hear you.” he grunted, turning around
to face me.

“That’s when I get my period,” I said louder, a tinge of
anger escaping. Why couldn’t he ever just stay sober?

My father just grunted, turning back around and stared at
the “X”. Slowly his finger traced circles around and
around it. He turned around back to me, his face frozen
in a smirk. “So Janey, what do you use? Tampons or those
winged Tampa’s on the outside?”

I remained silent, and he asked again, louder.

“The other things” I said, glancing at the open door. He
was much closer to the door than me. I wouldn’t be able
to make it passed him, I thought sadly.

“You should give tampons a try. I hear they feel pretty
good when it’s up your pussy. Almost like a little cock,”
he laughed, taking another swig from his bottle. “Of
course, you might not have any use for ’em soon,” he
chuckled again, gazing meaningfully at me.

I looked up at him in confusion.