LetsAllRimRobby
Experienced
- Joined
- Dec 31, 2009
- Posts
- 83
I guess I’m what you might call simple and good natured. When trouble comes my way, I dance. I dance when I’m happy. I dance when I’m sad.
A few years back, the week after my 18th birthday party, my dad and my older brother took me by force. I fought them off as best I could, but to no avail. My brother was only interested in having sex with me, but my dad was more interested in hurting me. He loved to hear me cry out in pain as he used many of the kitchen utensils on my firm, trim body. After whipping me with a wire coat hanger, he untwisted it and jammed the rough curly end inside me; I will never be able to have children, so the doctors say.
But those were the good old days, comparatively speaking. After my brother left for college, my dad made torturing me a regular ritual. One night he said that I looked a lot like my mother. From the look on his face and his tone of voice, I knew that wasn’t a good thing. She left the family after my dad was arrested for a sex crime, and he had to refinance our home to pay the defense attorneys. Depressed and unemployable, my dad began to sink into some radical form of depression. He spent thousands of dollars on male prostitutes – so much money that the bank eventually began sending foreclosure notices to the house. One day, my mother was gone. Just like that. I don’t blame her.
Anyway, some of the male prostitutes were very cute. I was the only woman my dad would have sex with, and sex with me was always a matter of his torturing me until I passed out. The only way I could tell that my dad reached an orgasm was the cum covering the palm of my left hand. But I guess he was a good dad: he never came in my mouth or on my chest – only in the palm of my left hand, and even then, only if I had already passed out from the torture. I suppose you could say he was considerate in that respect. It was his very own loving ritual.
Sometimes he would use handcuffs to tie me down. Other times, he would use ropes or wire. He always tied my left wrist extremely tightly. Cutting off the circulation made my lower arm and arm ice cold. He loved it when my arm and hand turned cold and blue. He said it reminded him of some sex he had overseas, before his dishonorable discharge from the military.
Early one morning, my dad tied me up with guitar strings. They hurt a great deal, which made the experience all the better for my dad. He started calling me by my mom’s first name. I screamed in agony but he kept twisting the wires spreading my knees, holding my ankles, and pulling my arms out to the side of the bed. I passed out, of course, but when I regained consciousness, I was alone. It was freezing cold in the room, as he had left the bedroom window wide open. That morning my dad had gone off to perform really stupid magic tricks for stupid and spiritually disadvantaged children, as part of some sort of benefit project funded by the local chapter of a social club. I always wondered what the people who ran the club at the national level would think if they knew my dad tortured his daughter as his only source of sexual gratification. I suspect they wouldn’t like it very much.
Unfortunately for me, by the time the gardener heard my screams and released me from my dad’s guitar-string torture-bed, I had lost all sensation in my left hand. I could see that it had my dad’s cum all over it, but the feeling wouldn’t come back. Usually, my dad would release me before anything bad happened to me, but this time he was so pre-occupied with his stupid magic tricks, and so self-absorbed, that he neglected his little girl and did nothing to save her hand. It was dead.
A normal dad would call an ambulance. My dad called a dentist who also was a member of the club that sponsored the stupid magic tricks for kids. The dentist left the kids’ show and drove right over to our house. My dad watched as the dentist examined my left arm and hand. The dentist turned on my TV and had me watch cartoons (he was a pediatric dentist) while he told me that the circulation was cut off for too long a period of time. The dentist had only a few drops of morphine or whatever it was in the vial, so I had to endure the much of the amputation slicing and sawing biting down on a belt strap. Luckily, I had become quite good at passing out when I had to, so I cut my awareness time substantially by fainting. Before I passed out, however, I could hear my dad across the room in my rocking chair. He was excitedly rocking back and forth as I screamed, the back of the rocking chair banging loudly against my desk. The dentist turned up the volume on the cartoons as my screams filled the air. He told my dad that there was the some good news to this unfortunate episode: he had some friends “downtown” who would fill out the paperwork to make the amputation look like it was not from girl-torture, but from sarcoma. This made my dad very very happy. That’s the last thing I remember before I passed out from the pain.
When I regained consciousness, I was once again tied to my bed, my butt hurt, and the dentist was gone. My dad was naked in the rocking chair. Now, my rocking chair is a little girl’s rocking chair. Being slim, I can still sit in it comfortably, but not my dad! His pasty white rolls of fat oozed over the sides and back of the tiny chair. When he saw that I was awake, my dad began rubbing what used to be my hand all over himself – scratching the nipples of his pendant man-boobs with what used to be my fingernails, licking and sucking on what used to be the fingers of my left hand.
It was about that time that – last September – that the bank finally sold the house, changed the locks, and sent the sheriff over to tell us to keep away from the place. My dad flew into a rage, the Shar Pei - like layers of fat bouncing up and down with his bombast and his bluster. “Do you know who I am?” Dad asked the sheriff, who was a deputy cadet of some sort and obviously had no idea what this enormous slob was trying to tell him. Yet it continued, “I am the vice president of the local chapter of the Stupid Magic Tricks Club!”
The boy-sheriff was clearly unimpressed and left. I was surprised that he didn’t throw us out onto the street right then and there. But he just said what he had to say, gave my dad some pieces of paper, and was on his way. He smiled cutely at me; I looked through the documents he gave my dad and found his name and badge number.
So all this threw my dad into yet another rage. Mumbling something about Lies and Republicans, he tied me to the legs of the dining room table so that my stump extended half a foot or so out into the room.
Despite my best efforts to get free, I could not. My dad put half a tube of lube on my stump and backed himself onto it, his legs straddling the massive mahogany table leg. He went further and further back until my stump had slid up the man’s anus so far that even my elbow was at risk of disappearing inside the stinking folds of Dad. Then he began rocking back and forth and side to side, my stump giving him all the pleasure he required. When, at last, he climaxed, he called out my brother’s name.
After he untied me, I packed some clothes and moved to Florida. My significant other and I have decided not to send him a Christmas card this year. Like I said, I dance when I’m happy and I dance when I’m sad. And now, I even dance when I’m mad.
A few years back, the week after my 18th birthday party, my dad and my older brother took me by force. I fought them off as best I could, but to no avail. My brother was only interested in having sex with me, but my dad was more interested in hurting me. He loved to hear me cry out in pain as he used many of the kitchen utensils on my firm, trim body. After whipping me with a wire coat hanger, he untwisted it and jammed the rough curly end inside me; I will never be able to have children, so the doctors say.
But those were the good old days, comparatively speaking. After my brother left for college, my dad made torturing me a regular ritual. One night he said that I looked a lot like my mother. From the look on his face and his tone of voice, I knew that wasn’t a good thing. She left the family after my dad was arrested for a sex crime, and he had to refinance our home to pay the defense attorneys. Depressed and unemployable, my dad began to sink into some radical form of depression. He spent thousands of dollars on male prostitutes – so much money that the bank eventually began sending foreclosure notices to the house. One day, my mother was gone. Just like that. I don’t blame her.
Anyway, some of the male prostitutes were very cute. I was the only woman my dad would have sex with, and sex with me was always a matter of his torturing me until I passed out. The only way I could tell that my dad reached an orgasm was the cum covering the palm of my left hand. But I guess he was a good dad: he never came in my mouth or on my chest – only in the palm of my left hand, and even then, only if I had already passed out from the torture. I suppose you could say he was considerate in that respect. It was his very own loving ritual.
Sometimes he would use handcuffs to tie me down. Other times, he would use ropes or wire. He always tied my left wrist extremely tightly. Cutting off the circulation made my lower arm and arm ice cold. He loved it when my arm and hand turned cold and blue. He said it reminded him of some sex he had overseas, before his dishonorable discharge from the military.
Early one morning, my dad tied me up with guitar strings. They hurt a great deal, which made the experience all the better for my dad. He started calling me by my mom’s first name. I screamed in agony but he kept twisting the wires spreading my knees, holding my ankles, and pulling my arms out to the side of the bed. I passed out, of course, but when I regained consciousness, I was alone. It was freezing cold in the room, as he had left the bedroom window wide open. That morning my dad had gone off to perform really stupid magic tricks for stupid and spiritually disadvantaged children, as part of some sort of benefit project funded by the local chapter of a social club. I always wondered what the people who ran the club at the national level would think if they knew my dad tortured his daughter as his only source of sexual gratification. I suspect they wouldn’t like it very much.
Unfortunately for me, by the time the gardener heard my screams and released me from my dad’s guitar-string torture-bed, I had lost all sensation in my left hand. I could see that it had my dad’s cum all over it, but the feeling wouldn’t come back. Usually, my dad would release me before anything bad happened to me, but this time he was so pre-occupied with his stupid magic tricks, and so self-absorbed, that he neglected his little girl and did nothing to save her hand. It was dead.
A normal dad would call an ambulance. My dad called a dentist who also was a member of the club that sponsored the stupid magic tricks for kids. The dentist left the kids’ show and drove right over to our house. My dad watched as the dentist examined my left arm and hand. The dentist turned on my TV and had me watch cartoons (he was a pediatric dentist) while he told me that the circulation was cut off for too long a period of time. The dentist had only a few drops of morphine or whatever it was in the vial, so I had to endure the much of the amputation slicing and sawing biting down on a belt strap. Luckily, I had become quite good at passing out when I had to, so I cut my awareness time substantially by fainting. Before I passed out, however, I could hear my dad across the room in my rocking chair. He was excitedly rocking back and forth as I screamed, the back of the rocking chair banging loudly against my desk. The dentist turned up the volume on the cartoons as my screams filled the air. He told my dad that there was the some good news to this unfortunate episode: he had some friends “downtown” who would fill out the paperwork to make the amputation look like it was not from girl-torture, but from sarcoma. This made my dad very very happy. That’s the last thing I remember before I passed out from the pain.
When I regained consciousness, I was once again tied to my bed, my butt hurt, and the dentist was gone. My dad was naked in the rocking chair. Now, my rocking chair is a little girl’s rocking chair. Being slim, I can still sit in it comfortably, but not my dad! His pasty white rolls of fat oozed over the sides and back of the tiny chair. When he saw that I was awake, my dad began rubbing what used to be my hand all over himself – scratching the nipples of his pendant man-boobs with what used to be my fingernails, licking and sucking on what used to be the fingers of my left hand.
It was about that time that – last September – that the bank finally sold the house, changed the locks, and sent the sheriff over to tell us to keep away from the place. My dad flew into a rage, the Shar Pei - like layers of fat bouncing up and down with his bombast and his bluster. “Do you know who I am?” Dad asked the sheriff, who was a deputy cadet of some sort and obviously had no idea what this enormous slob was trying to tell him. Yet it continued, “I am the vice president of the local chapter of the Stupid Magic Tricks Club!”
The boy-sheriff was clearly unimpressed and left. I was surprised that he didn’t throw us out onto the street right then and there. But he just said what he had to say, gave my dad some pieces of paper, and was on his way. He smiled cutely at me; I looked through the documents he gave my dad and found his name and badge number.
So all this threw my dad into yet another rage. Mumbling something about Lies and Republicans, he tied me to the legs of the dining room table so that my stump extended half a foot or so out into the room.
Despite my best efforts to get free, I could not. My dad put half a tube of lube on my stump and backed himself onto it, his legs straddling the massive mahogany table leg. He went further and further back until my stump had slid up the man’s anus so far that even my elbow was at risk of disappearing inside the stinking folds of Dad. Then he began rocking back and forth and side to side, my stump giving him all the pleasure he required. When, at last, he climaxed, he called out my brother’s name.
After he untied me, I packed some clothes and moved to Florida. My significant other and I have decided not to send him a Christmas card this year. Like I said, I dance when I’m happy and I dance when I’m sad. And now, I even dance when I’m mad.
