The air in the house often felt thick, heavy with unspoken things. For Helen, it had been like that for years. Her eighteenth birthday was supposed to be a fresh start, a marker of independence, but the tension at home sometimes felt like it would swallow her whole.
Her parents, Sarah and Mark, had once been a vibrant couple. Helen remembered glimpses of their early love: shared laughter, late-night whispers from their bedroom, her dad’s strong arms around her mum. But those memories were fading, replaced by a growing quietness between them, a cold distance that spread through the house like a chill.
Mark, her dad, had started drinking more a few years back. Not a sudden thing, but a slow, creeping habit. A beer after work turned into several. Then whiskey appeared. At first, it was just to relax, he’d say. But soon, it became his constant companion. He’d come home from his carpentry job, smelling of sawdust and sweat, then the smell of alcohol would soon follow. He became loud, then quiet, then argumentative. Mostly, he just became absent, even when he was physically there. He’d sit in his armchair, a glass in hand, eyes glazed over, staring at a TV that wasn’t even on.
Sarah, Helen’s mum, had tried at first. Helen remembered hearing them argue, pleas turning to accusations, tears turning to weary sighs. But eventually, her mum stopped trying. She withdrew, creating her own quiet space within the house, a world separate from her husband’s. She started spending more time out, first with friends, then, Helen suspected, with someone else. There were late nights, hushed phone calls, a new perfume that wasn’t her usual scent. Helen hadn’t dared to ask, but the signs were there, sharp and undeniable.
Helen felt like a ghost, moving between these two estranged people. She loved them both, but the parents she knew were slowly disappearing. Her dad was a shadow, her mum a stranger. She often found herself wishing for a normal family, a coherent conversation at the dinner table that didn’t dissolve into silence or a petty fight. She’d tried to talk to her mum, once, about her dad’s drinking, but her mum had just waved her off, a tired look in her eyes. “Some things you can’t fix, honey,” she’d said. It was a defeat Helen felt in her own bones.
As her eighteenth birthday approached, Helen had tried to cling to the idea of celebration. Maybe a party would bring a spark back, even for a night. A distraction. She’d suggested a small family gathering. Her mum had agreed with a forced smile, her dad with a grunt of approval, already anticipating the free-flowing alcohol.
The day of Helen’s birthday dawned gray and humid, mirroring the atmosphere indoors. She’d woken up with a knot of anxiety in her stomach, despite the presents laid out on her dresser. The house slowly filled with relatives. Aunt Carol and Uncle Rick arrived first, their boisterous laughter a stark contrast to the house’s usual quiet. Then came Grandma Susan, a few cousins, and family friends.
The party kicked off. Her mum had made a beautiful cake, and her dad, for a while, seemed almost like his old self, cracking jokes, albeit with a drink constantly in hand. Helen tried to enjoy it, pasting on a smile, accepting hugs and gifts. But she could see the cracks. She saw her mum’s eyes following her dad, a flicker of something she couldn’t quite decipher – pity? Disappointment? Resignation?
Helen started drinking early. Punch first, then a glass of wine. Then another. She wanted to numb the ache, to truly feel celebratory, to blot out the underlying tension that hummed beneath the surface of every forced laugh and polite conversation. The alcohol warmed her, made her feel lighter, bolder. She laughed louder, talked more freely. It felt good, for a while, to forget.
As the evening wore on, the party became more raucous. Everyone was getting drunk. Her dad, as expected, was leading the charge. His voice grew louder, his movements less coordinated. He was telling the same stories, slurring his words. Her mum’s face tightened with each repeated anecdote, each clumsy gesture. Helen watched, a familiar mix of embarrassment and sadness swirling inside her.
At one point, her dad stumbled, nearly knocking over a vase. Her mum shot him a look that could curdle milk. “Mark, honestly,” she’d hissed, pulling him aside. Helen couldn’t hear the full exchange, but she saw her dad’s shoulders slump, his face redden, and he retreated to the living room couch, pulling a blanket over himself even though it was still early. “Dad’s in the doghouse,” Aunt Carol whispered to Helen, rolling her eyes. It was a familiar pattern. He often ended up sleeping on the couch when he drank too much and annoyed her mum.
Hours passed. Helen was so incredibly, profoundly drunk. The room was spinning. Her head throbbed. She knew she needed to go to bed, but the thought of navigating the stairs felt like an Olympic challenge. She leaned against the kitchen counter, trying to steady herself.
Just then, her mum, looking surprisingly composed despite the evening’s chaos, walked by, pulling on her coat. She had a small clutch purse in her hand. Her hair was freshly brushed, lipstick reapplied. Helen’s fuzzy mind immediately registered something was off. Her mum was going out again.
“I am off out, do not tell your dad honey,” her mum said, her voice low, a conspiratorial whisper. She avoided Helen’s gaze, fussing with her coat collar.
The words, the casualness, sliced through Helen’s drunken fog. “What about dad?” Helen slurred, her voice thicker than she intended. “You’re meeting that guy again, aren’t you? Cheating.” The accusation hung in the air, sharp and raw.
Her mum sighed, a long, weary sound. She finally looked at Helen, her eyes holding a depth of sadness Helen rarely saw. “You don’t understand, Helen. Anyway. Your dad… well, listen, he’s always drunk and sleeps on the couch lately. He won’t even notice I’m gone.” Her voice was soft, but the finality in it was absolute. She gave Helen a brief, dismissive squeeze on the arm, then turned and slipped out the door, leaving Helen alone in the buzzing, suddenly empty silence of the kitchen.
Betrayal. The word felt like a physical blow, even through the alcohol haze. On her birthday. Her mum was off to meet her lover, leaving her drunk, disgraced dad on the couch. A fresh wave of self-pity and anger washed over Helen. She stumbled through the living room, past her dad’s heavy, snoring form on the couch. He was completely out, oblivious to everything. A part of her felt a pang of pity for him, another part felt a surge of cold resentment towards her mum.
The stairs were a monumental ascent. Each step felt like a mountain. She finally reached her bedroom door, fumbling with the handle. She pushed it open, expecting her familiar refuge. Instead, a wave of confusion hit her.
Two figures were tangled in a heap on her bed, a blanket pulled up to their chins. Aunt Carol’s unmistakable curly hair was visible, pushed against Uncle Rick’s bald head. They were both snoring, loudly. Oh, for fuck’s sake. Her aunt and uncle, also completely wasted, had apparently decided her bed was the closest and most comfortable option. They must have thought it was a guest room.
Helen stared, her mind too muddled to process it fully. Her bed was taken. She needed to sleep. Where? Logic, or what passed for it in her drunken state, kicked in. Her dad was on the couch. Her mum was out. The master bedroom was empty. It was the only option.
She stumbled towards her parents’ bedroom, the largest room in the house, a sanctuary usually off-limits. The door was slightly ajar. She pushed it open, the room dark, smelling faintly of her mum’s perfume and something else… stale beer? Or maybe that was just her dad.
She lurched towards the bed, shedding her clothes as she went. The dress she’d worn for her party, a strapless navy blue, fell to the floor in a heap. Her bra followed, then her panties. She felt a strange sense of liberation in her nakedness, the cool air against her skin a welcome shock. She fumbled in the dark for something to wear, and her hand brushed against a soft, oversized t-shirt on a nearby chair. It smelled faintly of her mum. Perfect. She pulled it over her head. It hung loose, almost to her knees, soft and comforting.
She crawled into the vast, empty bed. It felt huge without her parents. She got on her side, facing the wall, her back to the door, and pulled the duvet up to her chin. The mattress molding around her, the soft pillows, the sheer exhaustion, all combined to pull her into a heavy, dreamless sleep almost instantly.
An hour, maybe two, passed in the thick blackness of sleep. Then, a strange sensation stirred her from her slumber. It was a familiar feeling, yet utterly out of place. Pressure. A warm, insistent pressure against her ass, then a sliding, wet friction between her legs. Her pussy.
Helen was groggy, slow to awaken. Her mind struggled to grasp what was happening. She was being touched. Not a dream. Someone was in bed with her. But… her mum was out. Dad was on the couch. A wave of intense pleasure, dizzying and confusing, started to build deep inside her. Something was thrusting in and out of her pussy, from behind. Taking her from the rear.
“Oh, honey, y-your pussy feels… different, ah fuck it’s so good tonight,” a slurred voice rumbled against the back of her neck. He pushed deeper, a heavy, rhythmic thud against her core.
The voice. The smell. The way he moved. Oh god. No. It couldn’t be.
It was her dad.
Her eyes snapped open, wide and staring into the darkness of the wall. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drum against the insistent rhythm of his thrusts. Her dad. He thought she was her mum. He was inside her. Her very own dad was fucking her.
A choked gasp escaped her. She clapped a hand over her mouth, pressing hard, trying to muffle any sound, any reaction. Her body, however, was a traitor. Every thrust, every deep plunge, sent a jolt of something electric, something deeply wrong yet undeniably pleasurable, through her. His dick felt… good. Too good.
“You feel tighter than normal,” he murmured, his breath hot on her ear. His words were thick with lust and alcohol, still mistaking her for his wife. “Oh, fuck, your pussy feels so good.”
He pulled out almost completely, a wet, sucking sound, and then plunged back in with renewed force, hitting her deep inside. Her hips involuntarily lifted slightly, meeting his thrusts. A small, involuntary moan, a helpless “Ahhhh,” slipped past her fingers, muffled into her palm. He took it as encouragement, starting to pound her harder. The bedsprings creaked in protest, a symphony to her silent horror.
“I… I know I don’t say it m-much… I AHHH fuck, honey… I love you,” he grunted, his voice ragged with desire. He was spoon-fucking her relentlessly, pulling her tighter against him. Her ass cheeks clapped against his pelvis with each powerful stroke. She kept her hand clamped firmly over her mouth, her knuckles white.
She should stop him. She had to tell him it was her. But her mind was a battlefield. The alcohol still clouded her judgment. The shock was paralyzing. And then, a dark, twisted thought began to form. Mum cheated on him. Mum left him. He was lonely. This… this was what he needed. And a sickening, primal part of her, deep inside her pussy, was responding. A part of her was letting this happen.
His hand, rough and warm, went up the front of her shirt—her mum’s t-shirt, now. It cupped her breast, squeezing it through the thin cotton. Her nipple, already hard from arousal she didn’t want to acknowledge, tightened further, aching with a strange combination of pleasure and shame. He pinched it lightly, twisting it between his thumb and forefinger. A shiver, not entirely of revulsion, ran down her spine.
She couldn’t believe it. Even as he was still fucking her, pounding into her with animalistic grunts, he was talking, his drunken mind wandering through memories, still convinced she was Sarah. “I remember our first… first time, ahhh. When we had sex… all… night. Then you fell pregnant with…. ahhh, with Helen.”
Helen froze. The words hit her like a cold splash of water. Pregnant with Helen. Her. He was talking about her. As she lay there spooned, being fucked by him. The horror intensified, but still, she couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. She forced her mouth against the pillow, muffling desperate “Mmmmmpppfff, Mmmmpppfff” sounds. He interpreted them as moans of pleasure, because he started pounding her pussy harder, faster now.
If only he knew. If only he knew it was Helen, his own daughter, he was fucking into the mattress. Her ass was lifting off the bed with every savage thrust, a rhythmic dance of forbidden pleasure and burgeoning terror. He was a machine, a drunken, horny machine, powered by longing and alcohol. The pleasure was getting too much, too intense. It was a dizzying, sickening kind of good, a dangerous tightrope walk between ecstasy and utter self-loathing.
“Oh, fuck… you’re so tight tonight, baby,” he grunted, his breath hot on the back of her neck, smelling of whiskey and sex. His hand was still on her breast, squeezing it hard through the thin cotton, working her nipple, pinching and twisting it. Helen could feel her body responding in ways she never thought it would, especially not to him. Her hips started to buck slightly, instinctively, meeting his rhythm. It was like she had no control, her body had just taken over, betraying her. Every muscle in her core seemed to clench around his thick shaft, milking him, urging him deeper.
“Mmmph… ahhh…” she whimpered into the pillow, trying desperately to silence herself, but the sound escaped anyway, raw and involuntary. He just took it as a sign of his wife’s pleasure, pushing harder, faster. Her clitoris was throbbing, a deep, insistent ache that radiated through her core, down her legs. The friction of his dick inside her was unbearable, yet exactly what she craved, what her body demanded. It was wrong, so wrong, but her pussy just opened up and welcomed him, greedily sucking him in with every internal muscle, every quiver of her hips. Her vision swam, a kaleidoscope of dark shapes and flashing lights behind her closed eyelids.
His thrusts became shallower, faster, more frantic. He was building up to it, she could tell. Each time he pulled out slightly, the swollen tip of his dick brushed against that sensitive spot deep inside, and then plunged back in deeper, making her gasp, a choked sound against the material. Her whole body was trembling, a fine tremor that started in her legs and spread through her core. The bed was shaking with their combined movements, a low, rhythmic creak accompanying the wet slap of skin on skin. She could feel a warmth spreading inside her, a weird pressure building up in her lower belly, a sensation she didn’t recognize. It was like her bladder was full, but it wasn’t. It was different. More intense.
“That’s it, baby… just like that, I haven’t spooned you in years,” he mumbled, his voice thick with lust, almost a groan. He pulled her closer, spooning her even tighter, his chest pressed hard against her back, his heavy arm wrapping around her waist, pulling her hips flush against his pelvis. The angle was perfect. His cock was hitting her G-spot with every single thrust now, a direct, intense pressure that made her arch her back involuntarily, pushing herself further onto him. It was too much. This was going to happen. She knew it. The unfamiliar pressure, the overwhelming rush of sensation. But still, a part of her, the drunken, primal part, the part that was now completely lost in the physical act, didn’t want it to stop. It craved the release.
Her breathing turned into short, sharp gasps against the pillow, each one a desperate attempt to regulate the chaos inside her. Her legs were starting to shake uncontrollably, her toes curling, digging into the mattress beneath her. Her pussy was drenched, slick with his pre-cum and her own juices, the warm liquid feeling intense, almost overflowing. The pressure in her lower belly grew, tightening, twisting, becoming almost painful in its intensity. And then suddenly, it was like a dam broke. A gush of warm liquid erupted from her pussy, a wave of uncontrolled release, soaking the sheets beneath her, a sudden, hot flood that made her cry out.
“AHHHHHHH!” The sound was torn from her throat, muffled by the pillow, a strangled cry, but it was there, raw and loud. Her whole body seized up, spasming violently, her muscles contracting with breathtaking force. She arched her back, her torso lifting off the mattress, her toes curling, nails digging into the sheets. It wasn’t just a regular orgasm; it was a gushing, squirting climax, a torrent of release she had never experienced. A wave of intense pleasure, so overwhelming it was almost painful, washed over her, obliterating everything but the sensation. She couldn’t believe it. She’d never squirted before. Her own dad had just made her squirt.
He gasped too, his thrusts stopping for a moment as he felt the rush of liquid against his own cock and thighs. “Oh, fuck, honey! You’re dripping wet!” he growled, his voice laced with surprise and renewed, savage desire. He clearly thought it was his wife. The thought was sickening, but the aftershocks of her orgasm still pulsed through her, making her body tremble uncontrollably.
Then he started up again, harder and faster than before, his grunts louder, deeper, as if her squirt had just fueled his own impending climax. He was pounding into her, his cock slipping and sliding in the fresh wetness, the sound of skin on wet skin echoing in the dark room. Her pussy was still clenching around him from the aftermath of her climax, milking him, and he must have felt it, because he let out a guttural groan, a primal sound of a man on the edge.
“Fuck… that’s it… I’m cumin, baby… I’m cumin!” he yelled, his voice rough and guttural, broken with effort. He bucked against her, burying his face in her hair, his body tensing with the immense effort of holding back, then releasing. A final, deep thrust, the hardest yet, and then she felt his hot, thick cum explode inside her. It filled her up, a warm, sticky river flowing deep within her womb, a heavy, pulsating warmth that spread through her lower belly. It was disgusting. It was wrong. But it was also… strangely intimate, a deep, invasive connection that made her shiver. And the remnants of her orgasm still pulsed, making her clench around him, milking him dry even after he’d finished, still holding him inside her, clinging to the last vestiges of the forbidden pleasure. The same cum which 18 years ago filled her mothers cunt to make her.
He collapsed against her back, panting heavily, his weight pressing her into the mattress. His whole body was trembling, and he was drenched in sweat, his breath ragged against her hair. His cock was still buried deep inside her, softening now, but still there, filling her. The smell of sex, sweat, cum, and stale alcohol filled the air, a potent, intoxicating, and horrifying cocktail.
Helen lay there, utterly motionless, her face still buried in the pillow. Her own pussy was sore, throbbing, aching, and filled with her dad’s cum. Her mind, slowly clearing from the alcohol, was reeling, trying to process the enormity of what had just happened. She had just had sex with her dad. Her fucking dad. And she had squirted. He had made her squirt. The thought was sickening, horrifying, a monstrous revelation, yet a tiny, shameful part of her felt a flicker of something akin to pride, or maybe just confusion, that he could elicit such a powerful, overwhelming response from her body.
The alcohol was starting to wear off enough for the reality to sink in fully, a cold, hard knot forming in her stomach, tightening with each passing second. What the hell had she just done? Why hadn’t she stopped him? Why had she enjoyed it? Mum was cheating, yes, but this… this was beyond anything. This was incest. This was a nightmare of epic proportions. Her entire world, her entire sense of self, felt shattered.
After a few minutes, Dad grunted again, a sound of deep satisfaction, almost a snore. Then he slowly pulled his now limp, shrunken cock out of her. The loss of pressure was immediate, and she felt a small trickle of his cum run down her inner thigh, warm and sticky. He rolled onto his back beside her, letting out a heavy sigh, shifting the mattress. His breathing quickly evened out, deepening into a heavy, rhythmic snore. He was out cold. Drunk and satisfied, oblivious to the monstrous act he had just committed.
Helen lay there, still on her side, not daring to move, not daring to make a sound. Her body felt heavy, violated, yet also oddly sated in a way that terrified her. Her pussy still tingled and ached, a constant, undeniable reminder of what had just happened. She slowly reached down, her hand trembling violently, and touched herself. The sticky wetness. The warmth. It was real. It wasn’t a dream, not a nightmare. It was cold, hard, sickening reality.
Tears pricked at her eyes. Hot, silent tears that slid down her temples and soaked into the pillow beneath her face. What was she going to do in the morning? How could she face him? How could she face herself? The image of his face, contorted in pleasure, still thinking she was Mum, kept flashing in her mind, a horrifying loop. And the sickening knowledge that she had let him. She had silently accepted him, even encouraged him with her involuntary moans and squirts. Her dad had fucked her, his daughter, and thought it was his wife. And she had let him. And a part of her, the part she hated most, had even liked it. This was a secret, a monstrous secret, a dark stain that would haunt her forever, a weight that would crush her.
She waited. For what, she didn’t know. Maybe for sleep to claim her again, maybe for the morning to erase it all. But sleep wouldn’t come. The adrenaline, the horror, the shame, it all kept her wide awake, hyper-aware of her father’s oblivious snores beside her. The bed, her parents’ bed, felt utterly wrong, tainted. She couldn’t stay here. She couldn’t breathe.
Slowly, carefully, she shifted. Inch by agonizing inch, she slid away from her father’s sleeping form. The sheets were damp and sticky beneath her. She fought the urge to recoil, pushing herself to the edge of the bed. Her bare feet touched the cool floorboards. She stood, trembling, pulling her mum’s oversized t-shirt down further, as if it could hide the violation. She didn’t bother looking for her own discarded clothes. She just needed to escape.
She crept out of the bedroom, each footfall a silent prayer. The hallway was dark, the house quiet except for her father’s heavy breathing behind the closed door. She didn’t look back. She didn’t want to. Down the stairs she went, one agonizing step at a time, towards the living room.
The living room was cold, dark. Empty. The blanket her dad had pulled over himself earlier was still there, crumpled on the old, worn couch. She picked it up, wrapping it tightly around herself, shivering despite the humidity. She lay down on the couch, the familiar musty smell of old fabric filling her nose. It was where her dad was supposed to be. His place. Now it was hers. She curled into a ball, pulling the blanket tight, trying to make herself small, invisible. The couch was hard, uncomfortable, but it was better than that bed. Better than that room. Better than being near him. She closed her eyes, but the darkness behind them was filled with images, sensations, and the horrifying, echoing sounds of the night. She lay there, shivering, waiting for the dawn, knowing it would bring no escape. But deep down it was the best sex she has ever had.