There are no real people on the internet. Only characters. Daddycums is a character, and this story tells you something about his lifestyle. But it is not the lifestyle of the real me, the person behind the Daddycums persona. This is a fictional, not autobiographical, story.
On the other hand, if it would get you more excited to think of this as a true story, forget I said anything. Enjoy it however you wish.
When it comes to women, I am as dumb as it is possible for a man to be.
That is not an exaggeration. I am illiterate to the signals. I could have a woman rip off her clothes and jump on me and I wouldn't know what she meant by that. I'm amazed that I even found myself a wife; if not for the fact that Carrie and I had been friends since we were children and she had decided the first time we met that she was going to marry me, I probably wouldn't have even dated. She was my first and only true love.
No, that's not entirely true. I have three beautiful daughters who I adore. So you could say that I have four women who are the love of my life.
Notwithstanding that, I am still clueless when it comes to the fairer sex. That's why I let Carrie handle all of the "big talks" with my daughters. The birds and the bees in particular. Carrie was good at those talks.
The reason I mention my cluelessness is because without understanding that, none of this story makes sense. If I had been just a little wiser, perhaps none of it would have happened. I could have stopped it before the events spiraled out of my control. But oh what opportunities I would have missed! Would I have been happier if things had remained how they were? I don't know. I don't know...
Judge me how you will, but I maintain that none of it was my fault. I look back and question whether there was anything I could have done differently to prevent it, and the answer always comes up the same. No.
I will admit that I lack credibility, considering my hobby. My dark side. This tale may read like a confession, or a plea for forgiveness, or perhaps an excuse. An "I didn't do it" claim that will most likely fall on deaf ears. But this is how it all happened.
The events took place during my daughter's "special vacation" with her mother. Chelsea was my youngest of three, and she had just turned twelve, which was a signal to my wife that it was time for the Birds and the Bees talk. That was the reason for the special vacation with each of our daughters; it was an opportunity for one-on-one time with their mother, time for Carrie to teach them about growing up and what that meant for the future. Clueless Dad, of course, stayed home to babysit the other two girls. My daughters never talked about what went on during the special vacation, at least not with me. That was good; the last thing I needed was any kind of frank talk like that with my daughters. I would have had no clue about how to handle it.
My first suspicion that we were anything but a typical family came the second day of that vacation. It was June, a bright summer day, the kind best spent outdoors instead of in the den writing yet another chapter in one's latest novel. Unfortunately, I was running a little behind schedule, so I had to catch up. I am a novelist by trade, and a fairly successful one. It's not a career I would recommend to everyone; the income isn't steady and without a lot of discipline in managing spending, it's easy to lose control and end up bankrupt. But I was making a modest living of it; I had enough to support a family of five, including a sizable house and a few luxuries. The best and worst part was that I set my own hours. If I decided not to go to work one day, I could just make up the time with an extra hour or two each day for the rest of the week. The only problem was that I tended to procrastinate, which often put me in situations like this where I had to work hard on a day when I would really rather be outside.
At least I had the advantage of working from home. My den was a converted bedroom in the basement, off-limits to the rest of the family. When I was in there, I was not to be disturbed. The walls were lined with shelves full of notebooks, books about creative writing, encyclopedias, various specialized dictionaries, and install discs for computer programs. In the corner was my desk, which was large enough to hold my computer and printer on one side and still leave room for a flat surface for writing on the other. Unfortunately, that flat surface was perpetually covered by papers ranging from hard copies of chapters (I preferred to do my proofreading on paper rather than on the screen), to letters from my publisher, to notes and diagrams illustrating the interconnected sub-plots of my stories, to miscellaneous odds and ends that had nothing to do with writing whatsoever.
There was no window in my den, which was nice because I wasn't constantly reminded that outside it was bright and sunny. I didn't want to know that the sky was blue and the grass was green and my next-door neighbor was watering his garden and my other neighbor was taking his family camping and there were children playing at the park down the street. When I was in my den, I was sealed off from the world, just the way I liked it.
It also gave me the perfect place to let out my dark side. Yes, I had a dark side, but that should come as no surprise. Everybody has one. The friendly man who runs the corner store likes to look at dirty magazines. The church-going couple down the street have a shockingly kinky sex life. The fourth-grade teacher at the nearby public school is having an affair with two different men. In my case, I like to write dirty stories.
I like to think that my tales of young teenage girls having sex with their brothers, sisters, cousins, and/or fathers have some literary quality. I do put the same effort into them that I put into my mainstream novels. The characters are complex and the plots are at least believable if not particularly realistic. But when it comes right down to it, they're smut.
Everyone has their favorite sexual fetish, and mine is incest. I love reading and writing stories of close family members learning to love each other in unconventional ways. I believe it has to do with the fact that as a novelist, I find creative and unusual situations fascinating, but as a fully heterosexual man, I don't enjoy stories where men have sex with anything other than beautiful women. Forbidden lust excites me but there are limits. So if a man in a fictional story is going to get involved in a forbidden relationship but he's limited to a beautiful woman, what choices does he have? Young teenage girls and incest. Both are a staple of my illicit tales.
I go by the pen name "Daddycums" for my naughty stories. I chose it because it's both playful and naughty at the same time, which I feel describes the tone of my stories perfectly. My pseudonym could be as innocent as a girl's pet name for her father, or downright nasty. I claim that both interpretations are correct.
I had been writing for four hours straight on my latest legitimate novel and managed to get through some of the hard parts, so I figured it was time to let out my dark side for a while. I closed my word processor and immediately browsed to one of the sites where I had posted my naughty works online. It was the kind of site specializing in amateur erotica, where authors could post their stories and receive feedback. I had uploaded my latest short story a couple of days ago, and I was interested in hearing what readers had to say about it.
I have to admit that I enjoy reading comments on my stories. The comments on my less reputable stories, my Daddycums
stories, are particularly entertaining, as you may well imagine. Hidden amongst the trolls attacking me for no conceivable purpose, the generic "Good Job" blurbs, and the self-righteous religious fanatics condemning me to hell for writing naughty stories on their favorite porn site, I could always find some real gems.
For instance, someone identifying himself as "xxx6969" wrote, "Man, that was the hottest thing ever! Seriously, you need to write a book. Not this porno crap. You could make loads of money as a professional author." I smiled at that one. If he only knew...
A user named "9incher" wrote, "Makes me horny as hell. My wife better watch out, because as soon as I get home, I'm going to jump on her and bang her so hard she won't know what hit her. I just hope the boss doesn't find out I'm reading this at work."
"kittygirl16" added this nugget of wisdom: "This is what I think of your story. yes yes yes yes Yes Yes YES YES YES OH GOD!"
Then there were the strange ones, the ones that made me wonder how much of what they wrote was fantasy and how much was real. "Iwuvmydaddy" wrote, "Beautiful story. I wish my daddy would do the same things to me and my little sister as the daddies in your stories do to their daughters."
A followup from "Iwuvmydaddy2" replied, "Yeah, me and my big sister keep trying to get him to play with us, but he never takes the hint. I want to suck his dick until he shoots his load down my throat."
"Iwuvmydaddy" followed up with, "lets do him together!"
No doubt Iwuvmydaddy and Iwuvmydaddy2 were sisters who had some serious issues to deal with. Just another couple of crazy characters on the internet, and rather amusing ones at that.
I read through the rest of the comments, but none of the others really stood out as being particularly interesting. So I spent a while reading the stories of some of the other authors on the site. I will say with some conceit that I thought mine were the best, but then, I think every artist believes that about their work. Authors write for various reasons, and in my case, I write the stories I want to read but can't find anywhere, so naturally my own stories will appeal to me more than any others.
I glanced at the clock and was surprised to see that it was nearly supper time. When I get into "the zone," I can write for four, six, even eight hours nonstop without realizing how much time has passed. Apparently that was what had happened here, because it felt like only about half an hour since I had descended the stairs to the basement after lunch. Nevertheless, it had been a productive afternoon, so I decided to take the rest of the day off.
I rose from my seat and stretched, realizing that despite the time warp that had sent me from lunchtime to dinnertime, I felt exhausted. It was a good kind of exhaustion, the kind that feels like a pat on the back and a "well done." Still, I needed to rest, so I shut down the computer and exited my den. I could hear voices upstairs that meant that Amber was already home from work and talking with her younger sister.
At sixteen, Amber was old enough to have a summer job, and found one working part-time at the local used book store. Carla, the middle-aged woman who owned and ran it, was a big fan of my (legitimate) writing. She agreed to employ Amber on the condition that I autograph any copies of my books that ended up in the shop. She was mostly joking about that requirement, but I was happy to honor the deal, and Amber brought home a book or two a week for me to sign and send back with her the next day.
Of my three girls, Amber was the most classically beautiful. She had long, blond hair and blue eyes, with fair skin and a smile to break hearts. Since neither Carrie nor I had light hair, we often joked that she was accidentally switched at birth with another baby in the hospital.
Amber was what I would call an explorer. She loved to try new experiences, breaking ground for her younger sisters. She had gone to meetings of just about every club in the school, although she had joined none. She had tried ballet, karate, and gymnastics when she was a child but only spent a year with each; she had taken piano lessons; and last year she had even acted in one of the high school plays. Unfortunately, she never kept with anything for very long. When I asked her about it last year, she explained that there were far too many fun things to try, and if she spent all of her time with one activity, she wouldn't have time to experience everything.
That had naturally led to a discussion about drugs and sex, mainly between Amber and Carrie of course. I was officially a part of the conversation, but I let my wife do most of the talking. Fortunately, Amber assured us that she was too smart to try anything addicting. And as for sex, she wouldn't make any promises, but said she wasn't interested in any of the boys at school. She added with a flirtatious grin that for now, her heart belonged only to her daddy.
Her sister Linda was just as adventurous, though in a different way. Linda could be described as a bit of a tomboy. She loved hiking and camping, which suited me fine because I was an old Boy Scout. Linda could pitch a tent or light a fire faster than even I could, and when it came to tying knots, she knew every last one of them plus a few more that she had invented.
I was at least partially responsible for her attitude. I had always wanted both a son and a daughter, so I was a little disappointed when my second child also turned out to be a girl. I suppose I kind of treated her as the son I never had.
She was a bit of a problem child at school because from the very beginning she had decided it was her mission to purge the school of bullies. That meant a lot of fighting, and it seemed like at least once or twice a month she came home with a busted lip or a black eye. Every time she saw a kid bullying another kid, she would immediately step in. The size of the bully didn't matter; she had taken on boys much bigger and stronger than her. And unless a teacher stepped in soon, she almost always won.
Funnily enough, she never got in trouble for those fights. Everybody liked her except the boys she beat up, so the spectators always put the blame on the other guy, which was actually fair enough.
She had been on the junior high soccer team, and would have tried out for football if she could. Despite her feminine figure, I thought she would have made an excellent defensive lineman, but I kept those thoughts to myself. Carrie frowned upon Linda's aggressive nature, and wouldn't have enjoyed that kind of comment, even as a joke.
That was mainly because Carrie had grown up in a traditional home where women were supposed to act feminine. Even Linda's name was a sign of that. Ever since Carrie had taken a year of Spanish in high school, she had wanted to name a daughter Linda, which meant "pretty" in Spanish.
Her attitude aside, Linda actually lived up to her name fairly well. She had darker hair than her sister, a sandy brown shade that she almost always wore in a ponytail, half the time covered with a baseball cap. I personally thought there was something particularly appealing about a girl in a baseball cap, although I really couldn't say what I liked so much about it. And on the few times when Linda made herself up to actually look pretty, she was almost as beautiful as her older sister, which was saying a lot.
As soon as I reached the top of the stairs, Amber and Linda dashed over from where they had been sitting at the kitchen table and threw their arms around me. All my daughters were very affectionate, especially with me. They got it from their mother, who gave out hugs like every day was National Hug Day.
"Home from work, Daddy?" asked Linda in her usual teasing voice.
"I'm home from work," I confirmed, indicating that I was done for the day rather than just taking a short break.
"Good. Can I spend the day at Julie's house tomorrow?" Julie was her best friend from school.
"Oh, so that's why you're being so nice to me," I teased. "You have ulterior motives." I knew it wasn't true; the girls weren't being any more affectionate with me than usual.
"Of course. Otherwise I would never
be nice to you," she laughed. "So can I?"
"Spend the day at Julie's? Only if her mom or dad picks you up and drives you over. I won't have time; I'm still behind on my novel."
"I can drive her over on the way to work and pick her up on the way back," Amber offered.
"Good. It's all settled," said Linda. "I'll call Julie later."
"Fine," I said. "Now, about supper. I feel like ordering pizza. All in favor?"
Both girls raised their hands enthusiastically. With that unanimous support, I spent two minutes debating with the girls about the toppings, then phoned in the order.
Dinner was always a cheerful time in my family. Amber loved to talk, even when she had nothing to say. She tended to lead us to the strangest topics of conversation; she was an explorer in words as much as in activities. With her around, we would inevitably end up talking about why shoes had laces or what dinosaurs would say if they could speak or whether the days on calendars should be arranged vertically rather than horizontally, or any of hundreds of other bizarre subjects, many of which I'm sure nobody in the history of the world had ever spoken of before. We usually wound up laughing about just how absurd we sounded.
Tonight's conversation centered on the relative benefits of stacking books on top of each other rather than side-by-side in a bookcase. It was one of our more tame subjects, but we still joked around and laughed about it.
I loved to see my girls smiling. It was hard to feel bad about anything with their lovely smiles and enthusiastic attitude. All the cares of the world seemed to just vanish. It was especially nice when I was the cause of those smiles, and I admit that I tended to spoil them just a little. I loved nothing more than to receive a warm hug and a kiss on the cheek from them, so I took plenty of opportunities to do things for them to win their gratitude. Since they were both strong-willed and self-reliant, I figured it wasn't doing them much harm.
After supper, I had the girls help me clean up the dishes, then we headed into the living room for some much needed rest. Amber and Linda, however, had other ideas. As soon as I sat down on the couch, Amber hopped onto my lap. Linda, bolder than her sister, threw an arm around my neck. I thought it was just a friendly gesture until it was too late, and I found myself in a headlock.
That was a sample of the way she showed affection. She didn't hug like regular girls; she jumped on your back or arm-wrestled you or caught you in a full-nelson. Playful teasing always ended in a wrestling match. I always let her win, and admittedly part of the reason that I went easy on her was because I dreaded the embarrassment of discovering that she could beat me anyway.
Normally I didn't mind such horseplay, but after a long day of writing, I just didn't have that kind of energy.
"Girls," I said, "I'm too tired to wrestle."
"Yeah, I forgot," said Linda. "You've been working hard at sitting in your den all day." It was a sarcastic remark, but she said it so sweetly that I really couldn't get mad at her for it.
"Look, there are different kinds of tired," I said instead. "This is more of a mental tired."
"Oh, a mental tired," Amber grinned. "Well, I happen to know the perfect cure for that."
"What cure?" I asked.
"Well, first, you have to lie down on the floor," she said.
"Okay, I'll humor you," I smiled, then slid off the couch and onto the ground in front of it.
"Come out here, away from the couch," insisted Amber, and I obeyed. "Good," she continued as soon as she judged I was far enough from the couch. "Now, here's the key. You have to lie down, but you have to use the tummy of a sexy teenage girl as a pillow."
I laughed at the amusing notion, and laughed even harder when Linda's hand shot up and she exclaimed enthusiastically, "Pick me! Pick me!"
"Well, with an offer like that, how can I possibly refuse?" I asked. Linda lay down on the floor with her feet pointed toward the couch, and I lay down perpendicular to her body, resting my head on her stomach.
"You make a good pillow," I told her, and she giggled, which had the effect of shaking my head. It was a good thing I didn't have a headache, or this would have exacerbated it.
"Now the last step," continued Amber, "is to have another sexy teenage girl rub your chest."
"I like this cure," I smiled. "I'm going to have to get mentally tired more often."
Amber knelt on the floor beside my hips, then reached over with her hands and began to massage me, starting at my shoulders and continuing down to my chest. I closed my eyes and relaxed, letting myself enjoy the sensation of her hands on me. It felt so nice, I swore she could make a living as a professional masseuse.
After a few minutes, she surprised me by lifting up the bottom of my shirt and slipping her hands underneath. I opened my eyes, but she just smiled at me and winked, then ran her hands all over my chest under my shirt. That felt even better, and I basked in the wonderful sensation. I wouldn't have trusted Linda like that; she would no doubt have used it as an excuse to tickle me. But Amber seemed to want only to make me feel good.
It was so relaxing that after a couple of minutes I drifted off to sleep. It wasn't a deep sleep; I could still feel my daughter's hands on me and the rising and falling of Linda's stomach beneath my head as she breathed. I had rarely felt such peace in my entire life.
When I awoke later, I discovered that Linda had been replaced by a pillow from the couch, and Amber had ceased her massage. I wasn't disappointed though, because my daughters now lay beside me on the living room floor, curled up in my arms, one on either side. They were both awake and gazing at me as I blinked away my sleepiness.
"Did you have a nice nap?" asked Amber.
"You bet I did," I smiled. "You're right; that was the perfect cure for mental tiredness. I think I'll have to get mentally tired tomorrow too."
Amber laughed, then kissed me on the cheek. "I wuv my Daddy," she said in her cutest little baby-voice.
Not to be outdone, Linda kissed me on the other cheek. "I wuv my Daddy too," she said. The two girls glanced at each other, then burst out into uncontrollable giggles.
That look had not gone unnoticed by me though. It was the look of a shared secret, an inside joke that I was not meant to be privy to. But there was something about what they had said, or perhaps the way they had said it, that triggered some kind of memory in me. Where had I heard that before?