ANA;
I’ve been touching myself to thoughts of Uncle Marcus for over a year.
Not innocent little daydreams. Filthy ones.
I imagine him pinning me down on the bed he bought for me when I was twelve, one big hand around my throat while he f***s me so deep I can’t breathe. I picture him whispering “I raised you” right before he spits on my p***y and shoves his c**k inside me like I’m his to ruin. I’ve come with three fingers buried deep, biting my pillow so I don’t moan “Daddy” too loud, feeling sick with guilt because he’s the man who held me when my parents died, who taught me how to ride a bike, who made me breakfast every morning for eleven years.
He’s thirty-eight. I’m nineteen.
He raised me like his own daughter.
And I want him to f**k me like I’m not.
Tonight I’m coming home for
