My mum is always too busy and won't even care whatever i say because she believes her husband is the best.
When I was five years old, my biological father vanished from my life, swept away by the relentless storms of fate. My mother, desperate for stability and affection, quickly remarried. Suddenly, my adoptive father was the one orchestrating the rhythms of my everyday life, taking care of me, protecting me... so I naively believed
From the tender age of five, it was my adoptive father who bathed me. As I reached puberty, he also started to shave my intimate areas. The first few years were framed by innocence—back then, his touch me, strangely yet it was seemingly paternal, seemed harmless. But as I began to transition into adolescence, the nature of his care took a darker turn, cloaked under superficial pretext.
"I need to make sure you aren’t getting involved with boys,” he'd whisper, his fingers exploring the f0rbidden territory of my young womanhood.
Those early moments were filled with a confusing cocktail of discomfort and misguided trust
Over time, the shaving sessions evolved into incomprehensible rituals, silently laced with pain and bewildering pleasure. Yes, he made me clīmax.
It wasn't just about care anymore. It became a twisted invasion of my being, a gentle yet perverse vi0lati0n. With almost crûel regularity, he would shave, clean, and then probe every inch of my teenage b0dy, his touches becoming progressively more intrusive
Two years ago, after one of those grooming sessions, he crossed a line I had desperately hoped he’d never dare to cross. While c@ressing my clit0ris, he noted my reluctant, forced m0ans of plea$ure. From that point, these intimate moments included mandatory cl!maxed, manipvlations of my b0dy from which I found no escape. My only respite was a forced detachment, a survival mechanism against the betrayal masquerading as affection Then came the next phase, six months ago. His depraved hunger knew no bounds.
After each shaving, each calculated cleaning, and each subtly brûtál caress, he’d kneel before me, sprëading my thighs and begin to lick, savoring every stolen cry of pleasvre. The 0rdeal didn't end there; after his crûel enjoyment, he would go further, pénétrating me with his th0obbïng desire, a ravenous be@st devouring what little purity I had left. His thrüsts would only cease when he released himself însïde me.
The paradox is t0rtur0us. Despite the h0rr0r, there’s this involuntary physical ple@sure, this shameful enjoyment that consumes me with guilt. How can I relish something so m0nstr0us?
My mother remains oblivious, working long hours from 7 AM to 10 PM, leaving us alone in the house.
Every fiber of my being screams for help. My soul yearns to escape this vici0us cycle of disgûst and desire. Each new session is a descent into my personal héll, a strange nexus of t0rment and unwanted ple@sure. And all the while, he remains my mother’s husband.
