by zipado321 11/08/07
Right now, I have to come to grips with the fact that I am basically two different people. On the surface, I'm the 27 year old girl who has a bubbly personality, 38D-cup chest, curvy body, and happy outlook on life. I have a job teaching kids, I have good friends and family, and everything seems wonderful. Beneath the surface, however, there is another me, a girl who keeps her past and her experiences pushed away, experiences that have nonetheless made me who I am today.
Simply put: just three weeks after I had turned 18, I let myself be molested by my father.
Let myself? Yes, I could have said no, or I was given the chance to anyway. But considering what a master manipulator my father has always been, it's hardly surprising that I let things start in the beginning.
Speaking of the beginning... despite my curves now, in September of senior year I had the body more of a gymnast, and a solid naiveté to boot. Even though my mom is busty, when my chest started to develop it seemed to happen out of the blue, and happened quite fast. I felt shy and as though I was the first person this had happened to, and started to wear bigger, bulkier clothes to help hide what was happening.
One person I couldn't hide it from, though, was my father. I slowly became aware that he was turning into a leering, oddly creepy man when no one was looking. He would "accidentally" walk in while I was changing or getting out of the shower, always trying to sneak a peek. However, he wanted more.
It was a cold night in early fall, and a slow, biting rain had been falling on me and others during marching band practice. I came home to find only my father's car in the driveway; my mom was at a graduate class, and my brother out with friends. I thought nothing of it as I entered the house, stopping to chat with my dad only long enough to tell him that I was freezing and needed a hot bubble bath. To this day, I remember him smiling a smile that I now realize was that of a cat catching a bird.
Quickly, I had filled the bath with water and bubbles, stripped naked, and was soaking away my coldness. Then I heard the knock on the door that would start the slow, spiraling change to my life.
"Marshmallow?" It was the pet name that only one person used with me.
My father boldly opened the door.
I wasn't sure what to say at first, as it was shocking to hear him actually come into the bathroom. I managed a meek, "Yeah?"
Then I could see him. He glanced at me, then looked downwards. At first I thought it was out of modesty, but I saw his eyes crawling over my clothes on the floor, eating up the sight of the thin, sheer lace of my pink bra, the big cups standing in mute testimony to my changing body.
"Sweetie, I was concerned that you were cold. That you might get sick." His voice was firm and solid, as though I had done something wrong and he was focused on it.
"Well... I'm in the bath, so..." It was meant to be an answer to his concern, as well as a hint for him to leave.
He kneeled down and was now improperly, uncomfortably close to me. "I know, Laura. I just don't want you overdoing your soak."
My mind flashed back to when I was younger, how I never felt immodest when he would come into the room while I was taking a bath. With my body exploding with change, with growing breasts and hips and other changes, I felt flushed and cornered. But how could I tell any of this to my father?
He continued talking in a tone that was direct and not to be questioned. "I'm going to grab the washcloth, then your bath will be over."
I didn't move a muscle in the hot bath water, but I felt shocked nonetheless. Surely he didn't mean... and then he had the washcloth in his hand and was soaking it by my feet. He smiled and brought it out of the water, towards my face.
"Close your eyes, Marshmallow."
I paused and felt his stare boring into me. I look back now, these years later, and realize that was the moment that I made a decision. I decided to do nothing, I decided that even though he was a man with needs, he was my father first, and a father never would cross the line. I would find out I was very, very wrong.
I closed my eyes and felt the warm, soapy washcloth brush lovingly against my face, its water flowing down my cheeks, my neck, my throat, and onto my shoulders where the bathwater sat.
"Good girl, good girl," he cooed, and put the washcloth back in the water, soaking it again.
I pulled my hands out of the water to wipe my face. As they were coming towards my face, I felt a coolness on the top of my chest, and realized that by raising my hands I had pulled the top of my breasts out of the sud-filled, soapy water. I immediately heard my father take a sharp breath, and I knew he had seen more of me, of my body, than I wanted. I wiped my eyes and looked at him. I saw a determination in him, a desire in him that made me shiver in the hot water.
My father lifted up the washcloth again and this time brought it to my chin. He softly rubbed my neck all the way around, and went from shoulder to my collarbone to shoulder, and back again. I felt a pounding in my head, because I knew what was next.
As he soaked the cloth a third time, he softly broke the silence. "You know I love you very much... right Marshmallow?"
"That I'd never... that my love for you means I'll always protect you?" he asked as he brought the wet cloth up and squeezed it.
I couldn't speak. I could barely nod.
He smiled, warmly, generously, paternally. "That's my good girl." Then my father brought the washcloth to my collarbone and started to slowly move down.
I couldn't look at him; for some reason, I focused on my toes sticking up out of the water. I could hear him trying to control his breathing, trying to act calm. Out of the bottom of my eyes, I could see his firm hand rubbing lower... then he was at the top of my left breast... then, seemingly out of the blue, the cloth was lower, and through it I felt my father's hand around my breast. His grip was firm--for the moment he was no longer pretending to be washing me--and I heard him slowly exhale in satisfaction. All I felt was shock and panic and embarrassment. Only with later encounters would I allow myself to feel a sad, humiliating sense of enjoyment.
Then the cloth and his hand were moving again. In the slick, soapy water they slid to my right breast, and again he cupped me, this time a bit softer. The cloth moved against my already-tender nipple, and I closed my eyes. I didn't feel pleasure exactly--my brain wouldn't allow it through the growing shame, but I realized that it was less shocking this time. My face burned red.
Then my father spoke, forever ruining the innocent beauty of his nickname for me. "You really are a marshmallow, Marshmallow... so sweet, so soft," and with the word soft he lightly moved my breast. I suppose he said it as a joke, to remove the tension, or to lessen any guilt he might have felt, but I didn't respond. "Right, Laura?" he asked with a firm edge to his tone.
I could only whisper a barely-audible, "Yes."
"Baby, what do you say to a compliment? What do you say when a man is kind enough to compliment you on your body?" The second half of his question was the first time he would suggest that my curvy, plump body was less than perfect. Later, in the coming visits he would make, it was something he would say more and more to guilt me.
"Thank you," I said, my voice high and soft but no longer a whisper.
"Thank you what." It was not a question: it was an order to say more.
"Thank you, Daddy, for the compliment."
I felt the washcloth move off of my breast and onto my upper stomach. I opened my eyes and realized he was leaning forward. I felt my heart skip a beat, as I wondered what he had in mind--
And then he was merely kissing me on the forehead, a caring, fatherly thing he had always done. It seemed tender and genuine and for a moment I forgave him. But a moment later I learned how two-faced my father could be, for his hand "slipped" off of the washcloth and suddenly I felt the flesh of his hand on my naked torso.
I glanced at his face and saw a slight smirk. In that brief moment of seeing his upturned mouth, realization hit me. I realized that he had wanted this for some time, that I had not stopped him, that he felt victorious.
Under the water, his hand slid up and was cupping my left breast again, his fingers softly sliding back and forth, over the hardening nipple, feeling the fullness of my breast. "Ohhh Laura," my father softly said, his hand moving to my other breast. "What a beautiful girl you've turned into lately."
I smiled, genuinely smiled, and was able to softly say, "Thanks, Daddy."
I saw him glance at his watch and pause, and I remembered that my mother was due home... when? What time was it anyway? My mind was a fog and stayed in the moment.
My father moved closer to me, his right hand still on my chest, still softly playing. He kissed the side of my head, whispering, "I love you, baby." His other hand softly went around the back of my neck. It was both a touch of innocent intimacy and a grasp to reinforce his power over me. His right hand moved once again to my upper stomach. "This is between you and me, right Laura?"
I nodded, then said only, "Yes, Daddy."
His hand was now on my stomach, his fingers feeling its curve that told him, told me, that he was right: I should be grateful to get a compliment about my body. He lightly grabbed at my tummy, embarassing me, reinforcing his point. I wasn't a stick thin waif, so I should be thankful that any man, even if it was my father, wanted to touch me.
"No need to tell your mother then?"
I knew what he wanted to hear. I knew he wanted to seal this evening with silence before he left, before my mother returned home. For a brief moment, I felt the urge to cry come up my throat, but I instead inhaled, my breath shaking away any hope of tears. "Our secret, Daddy."
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