Interactions with my dad
My pops shares his concerns about my safety when I come home late at night. He suggests I call him when I reach the train station, so he can grab me with the car. It's not safe for me to walk home when it's dark, he expresses. Are the possibilities of kidnapping and rape dancing in his mind? He confesses how much he cares for me. He sheepishly rephrases, "Your momma and I care about you." I mull over if he is secretly covetous of any potential assailants. It makes me weary discussing these thoughts with him. He keeps his eyes averted as he talks to me. Is he uneasy about his revelations or does he think he's accidentally sharing his private ideas?
I'm not wearing a bra. I'm just not fond of the contraption. It's a delight to skip it at home. A store clerk points out that the bra I'm wearing is too small and suggests I go up a size. I can't discuss it with my dad. When I ask my mom, she variants the original, "That saleswoman's a dunce. Wants you to buy more brassieres!"
We share an evening meal. According to custom, I'm accountable for laying the table. Cutlery for my pops; chopsticks for mom and me. Dad inquires, "How were things at school?" I reply, "Pretty good."
Mom questions, "What'd you learn today?" I respond tersely, "Nothin'." Mom gets rather annoyed, "You spent whole day there and got nuthin' out of it? Stupid girl!" I say zilch and Dad chuckles along with her.
I'm not wearing a bra. As he looks at me, I wonder if he spies my assets. Does he find me pleasing? Admires me like the hustlers on the street? Lusts for me, similar to his yearning for my mom? He engages in surreptitious glances, certain he evades detection. He miscalculates how obvious his actions are; even my mom clocks his behavior.
In the evening, entertainment time comes. She accuses him of being foolish like all males.
I'm not wearing a bra. His observations make me wonder if he cogitates on groping my chest, then savoring its weight. I fantasize him breathing in with satisfaction, making sighs of adoration.
If I worked at a massage parlor, I'd avoid acknowledging him. I'd be scandalized for the other ladies to realize my client was my father.
I'm not wearing a bra. If he carelessly touches my breasts, he'd snatch away his hands, fearing the flames would burn him. My face would flush with shame, he'd censure me for inciting him.
If I operated a massage salon, I'd feign ignorance when we're at home, all alone, and privacy took over. He'd enumerate his urges for his daughter. I'd retort that it doesn't change the situation - desiring me and acting on it are two distinct things. He proposes calling him 'dad' and I comply. I partake in this to, presumably, shield the girl in my house from his wayward inclinations.
When a night out brings him home, tipsy, I ponder if tipsy enough, he'd stumble to the wrong room and slip into my bed. In sleep, I pretend to be unconscious, as he lands on top of me and kisses me. [Additional information based on the context of the provided text is included to maintain consistent word usage in the paraphrase.]
I'm not wearing a bra right now, and if he were to reach for them, I'd swat his hands away from me. He'd be filled with embarrassment. He'd apologize and plead with me not to tell anyone. Our relationship would suffer. I'd despise him and stay away. I'd turn quiet and melancholic, and when my mother inquired, I'd start sobbing, and let her know what had transpired.
Often, I picture myself with his semen inside me. I imagine his incest sperm leaking out of me. It's all made up. I daydream about this scenario frequently.
I don't have a bra on. If he tried to touch my breasts, I'd place my hands on his and guide him, telling him how long I've yearned for him to touch me that way. We'd kiss, and I'd confess that I've wanted him to make love to me forever.
I'm waiting in the lobby of the local police station. When it's my turn, the officer asks what I want. I attempt to tell him what's going on at home, but the noise in the lobby makes it challenging for him to hear me. "Speak up, ma'am," he instructs me. The others in the lobby cease their chatter and stare at me. "What's the matter?" he inquires with impatience. I shake my head and tell him it's nothing. I hastily depart, realizing it was a blunder to have come there.
I'm not wearing any underwear under my dress. He doesn't know, but I do. How would he ever know that?
He enters my room and stands at the door, reluctant to intrude. I respond to his questions rudely. "What do you want?" I respond tersely. However, if he stood behind me and rested his hands on my shoulders, I wouldn't feel as self-assured. If he placed his hands on my shoulders, I doubt I'd be able to respond to him. I'd sit silently and let him do whatever he wished.
It's been several weeks since whatever happened has occurred, and I'm wondering if I might be pregnant.
If he were standing behind me now and resting his hands on my shoulders, he'd know I'm not wearing a bra. "You feel really soft and warm," he tells me. I place my hand on his and declare, "You always say nice things to me." He leans closer and gently kisses my cheek. I turn to him and this time he plants his lips on mine.
My period is yet to arrive. I don't seek any answers for this. When passing by a pharmacy, I don't even consider buying a test. I keep the truth hidden from everyone. I pretend nothing has changed and that my existence remains the same as before.
Read also:
- Criminally-Tuned Rhythm Chapter 1
- Chapter 3: The Altered Text
- Dancing With Mom: Chapter Two
- Pinnacle of Excellence
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