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Apparently it began as rape but became a relationship and she loves him now. The girl is actually lesbian and shortly after moving out got engaged to her new girlfriend.

Meanwhile, her dad was in prison, serving several years for an incest conviction. Her mother maintained a lukewarm communication to her daughter but it seems the ordeal brought her closer to her other daughter, which caused great bitterness and jealousy in the first.

The parents' marriage ended and neither will have contact with the other. The mother has moved on and found a lovely partner and seems content.

Father and daughter maintain communication and she still loves him. She has few friends, having a nasty manipulative side.

She crackles with stormy energy. She lacks a love for life that almost everyone else I know has at our age. Her fiancee is famed for having uncontrollable anger.

Others say they are well suited. Was it really all worth it in the end? Everyone hates their mother at times, but try to see it from her perspective.

Doesn't she have the right to know? Most people probably see this as wrong, but ur old enough to make ur own choices. I've always felt I might make a move if I had a younger sister.

I would recommend trying to get some distance for a little bit. Maybe move out. Try dating some other guys and then deciding if u want to continue this relationship.

If u do there's a whole world out there where the two of u can move and be whoever u want to be. I hope this isn't preventing you from developing normal relationships with guys your own age.

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Create an account. A stiff duck is very clearly in rigor mortis. Just don't let anyone find out. Even ur best friend.

I never knew her, never would meet her. It would have been awkward. My father gave no reason for killing me. Something, perhaps, must have happened to his hormones.

He only said he was doing it for me, that it was for the best, my best. How could I have ever believed the man loved me?

He even looked sad that day, so sorrowful and tired. In better times and in our previous world, I would have taken him in my arms as I was wont, and work my magic on him.

Over the years I had learnt his special recipe. I was the only one who knew his mix. But his words belied the sorrow on his features.

He had said the break up words so casually, so matter of factly, as if he had thought it through and found it a simple matter.

There should be a special kind of voice and words for pronouncements of that nature, something equal and suitably terrible.

The normalcy and casualness of his words were a negation. It was like mockery. But end it did, and in so shocking a manner.

Death is not a casual occurrence. I felt like dying. I wanted to die. I should have killed him too; I should have hurt him too.

He looked like he was hurting, but I should have made sure. It is too painful to feel the pain of death and yet be alive.

There is no pain worse than the pain of death. And then, the man wanted us to be Father and Daughter, just father and daughter. We were happy, I made him happy.

Why do some people reject their own happiness? For a long time I had believed my father loved me. On my twentiethbirthday, I knew the truth.

That day was my awakening to the heartlessness of men, and the absurdity of love. That day, I grew up, I grew old and I died.

It was the last day I spoke or saw my father. He killed me, so I made sure I remained dead to him. I became a living dead, dead inside and alive only in looks.

As I left him that evening, I looked back a lot of times. He watched me leave. The tears were streaming from both our eyelids. I could feel his sorrow; it was thick enough to touch.

The feeling was apt; death had occurred. The man came for me twice, later. But he came as a father coming for his daughter.

He should have come for me as a soul for its soul mate, like breath for air, like the dying for life. That was what we were; romance and its love.

I made a new resolve. Men would learn from me, the very hard way. I have what they want. My beauty is the glaring kind that every body agrees with.

But my heart would be a different matter. It took a while before I could stand the touch of any other man, but vengeance helped me detach my body from myself.

I would forever be grateful for my looks; it was my ultimate shield. It helped me survive and helped my resolve. I set off on a mission, to hurt as I had been hurt.

I soon became very successful. I brought both boys and men to their knees. I killed them and still left them alive. I remember the families that fought themselves over me, the brothers that would never forgive each other, the scandalized churches and governments, the suicides, the bankruptcies.

There is a lot a body can do when it is rightly motivated. Payback is a beautiful side of nature.

No man recovered that encountered me. But vengeance was not so much fun. Sometimes I wondered what the whole point was.

Payback did not completely fill the chasm that my father dug in me. I doubt if anything ever would.

In moments of weakness, I would always think about what my father and I had. Thinking about our perfect love brought me tears and gave me joy.

At such moments, I would really try to feel and have fun, I would let my guard down to see if I would be alive again. It was no use. No other man was like my father.

Suggestions to post to another subreddit please use the report and message the moderator options in these cases.

Excessive trolling will result in a ban, this also includes those who consistently post in a negative fashion. I have super hot sex with my dad I know this is really gross to say, but I've been in love with my dad for ever.

When I hit puberty i started to get very aroused. I caught him staring at my ass when I bend over to clean the fish tank. We watch movies together and snuggle.

About five years ago when I was 15, he came home really drunk and confessed he was attracted to me. The next day he was very uncomfortable and regretful over what he confessed.

I found it really cute. Two years later we began to do foreplay when my mother wasn't at home. I really hate her sometimes and she treats my dad like crap even though he works hard.

So far NO one knows! We are very good at hiding it. When we do it i go into complete submission. I feel so safe.

I let him do as he pleases with me and it gives me shivers just thinking about it. I don't find incest nasty. I upvoted because this is a good confession.

But I find it repugnant that your father went after you at such a young age. I hope everything turns out fine for you still.

As for the relationship between your mom and dad Im not saying I know anything about them but I do think you are living in a fantasy land.

I do think this will not end well. Yeah I can't see this ending well. I hope this isn't real but if it is I really hope you get therapy and you dad gets some help.

This is wrong on so many levels. Have you considered how this might affect your father? Not to say he is a victim, but there is a.

Old saying that "a stiff duck has no conscious". This could turn out to be a very heavy thing on him that could lead to all sorts of self destructive behavior.

OP, is this you? I had a flatmate who a year after she was gone, was revealed to me as having feelings for her dad in the same way.

Apparently it began as rape but became a relationship and she loves him now. The girl is actually lesbian and shortly after moving out got engaged to her new girlfriend.

Meanwhile, her dad was in prison, serving several years for an incest conviction. Her mother maintained a lukewarm communication to her daughter but it seems the ordeal brought her closer to her other daughter, which caused great bitterness and jealousy in the first.

The parents' marriage ended and neither will have contact with the other. I was twelve that first time, and a happy child, happier than any other child I knew.

I doubt if any other child had so much love. Everything was perfect. My father broke up with me. Just like that. End of matter. It felt like a full stop at the end of an epitaph.

It was too sudden. I had no warning, no premonition. The break up was like death. I had taken the week off from school just to be with the only man in my life, the best man I ever knew, or so I thought.

I thought my birthday would have ended sensually, like all the others. It was usually the best birthday present he gave me, a passionate night of love making right out of a romance novel.

It had been a while. My higher education had taken me away. And I sorely missed my beloved father. I went home that day with thoughts of my father obscuring all other thoughts.

I arrived late in the evening. I made myself as adorable as he liked. It was not hard. My allure had never needed much artificial furnishings; a touch here and a touch there, and I would be set to win any beauty contest.

That evening I was at my best. All my preparations and quivering anticipation was to have ended in bliss, the kind only my father could give me.

Instead, I got the shock of my life. I learnt how it must feel to be shot out of the sky. I knew my father; I knew the look on his face. It was the same look he had when he shot Dragon our Alsatian.

This was not like before when he would refuse to touch me because I misbehaved. My father had never hit me or scolded me; his punishments were usually more severe and silent.

He would simply refuse to touch me for days on end. Such days were hell for me. I could barely survive without him. When he was pleased with me, he really would take his time and give me much pleasure that I never knew was possible.

I was a very well behaved child; I had all the proper manners for a proper lady. Thanks to my father. But this was no punishment. This was a cessation.

This was my death. I tried to make him see reason, to convince him that we were to be forever. I begged him not to kill his beloved and only child.

How could he end something so wonderful, something so perfect? It was beautiful; we were one, my father and I. Our love transcended that of a father and his daughter.

It was the stuff of heaven. I was his sole religion, he worshiped me. There was no one else either, I knew that much.

My mother died while birthing me. And he was my breath. I never missed my mother. I never knew her, never would meet her.

It would have been awkward. My father gave no reason for killing me. Something, perhaps, must have happened to his hormones.

He only said he was doing it for me, that it was for the best, my best. How could I have ever believed the man loved me?

He even looked sad that day, so sorrowful and tired. In better times and in our previous world, I would have taken him in my arms as I was wont, and work my magic on him.

Over the years I had learnt his special recipe. I was the only one who knew his mix. But his words belied the sorrow on his features.

He had said the break up words so casually, so matter of factly, as if he had thought it through and found it a simple matter.

There should be a special kind of voice and words for pronouncements of that nature, something equal and suitably terrible.

The normalcy and casualness of his words were a negation. It was like mockery. But end it did, and in so shocking a manner. Death is not a casual occurrence.

I felt like dying.

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