My name is Lexi, and this is the story of how I lost my virginity to my father when I was a little girl. I guess I'll start at the beginning, as that's usually the best place. In this case, the beginning would be the incredible summer of 1983, the year I turned eleven. In May of that year, Mom and Dad, whose twelve year marriage had been a long crisis of blue-veined screaming, hurled dinnerware, and slammed doors, finally decided to call it quits. For all the marital acrimony, the actual divorce was settled tactfully. Mom got to keep the house, and Daddy rented a little apartment closer to his job at the timber mill. The final detail that needed sorting out was what would happen to me.
Daddy thought it best to simply ask me whom I'd rather live with, and in this rare occasion, my mother agreed. I think she already knew the answer, and I was torn only so far as I didn't want to hurt my mother's feelings. She was well meaning and obviously loved me, but she was also self-centered enough to make Narcissus blush. Still, all this was of little consequence. She and I both knew full well that I was "Daddy's Girl" all the way. I loved my mother very much, but the love I had for Daddy was altogether different and bordered on worship; it was a fairly easy decision. That summer my father and I packed up our things into cardboard boxes, and moved out.
While I still suffered a dull ache over my parents' split, the sudden change in my life filled me with a sense of adventure. Everything was new and exciting. There were woods behind the apartment that needed exploring, new friends to be made in the neighborhood, and I'd be starting the sixth grade in a brand new school. Even more exciting was the fact that I was now, as Daddy put it, "the lady of the house." Admittedly, things weren't much different than at our old house, since I had had always dutifully tended to my hard-working father. Only now, with my mother out of the picture, my care-taking role seemed official somehow, and this made me feel very grown up. This was a feeling I grew to adore.
It didn't take long for this feeling to become an obsession. As "Daddy's Girl," I had always felt an unspoken sort of competition with my mother in regards to my father's attention. I was also vaguely aware that mommy had access to affections that were denied me - the type of affection I only knew from TV and that I needed a permission slip to discuss in school. But now that I had Daddy to myself, I began to daydream that if I could just grow up faster, then I had a very real chance of replacing my mother altogether. It was a silly little girl's dream, and in the beginning I had no real idea of what I actually desired. Regardless, these thoughts thrilled me in ways I'd never known before, and I thought they were all so terribly romantic in a very grown up sort of way.
As this small, romantic germ of an idea blossomed, so too did my sexuality. As a little 11-year-old girl, the realm of sexual activity was strange and clearly one for adults, but this was precisely what made it so alluring. At first, my sexual explorations were merely pragmatic, educational, a means to grow up faster. I found a copy of "The Joy of Sex" in the public library, and stared at those pencil drawings for hours. That hairy naked couple curled and twisted themselves into the most amazing situations, and I wanted to learn all about them. I spent every day in the library for two weeks, sneaking that heavy tome over to an obscure study-carrel in the back of the building to pour over the pages with wide eyes and increasingly damp underwear.
From there it didn't take long to discover the joys of touching myself. While stroking my young virgin pussy with my fingers, it slowly dawned on me that there were benefits beyond growing up that sex seemed to promise; there were very real physical pleasures to be had, and I began to crave them. Having sex turned from a way to reach a goal, to the very goal itself.
As luck would have it, the first week of August brought another change to our household. A record-setting heat wave rolled through our region, and our little apartment buzzed with electric fans in an effort to stay cool. The fans weren't much help, so I decided this was reason enough to pad around the house wearing only my panties and a tank top. I have to confess that this decision, while certainly childish and na•ve, was not wholly innocent. While I still had much to learn about sex (and I would learn!), I knew perfectly well it was naughty to walk around half-naked in front of my father. Indeed, it was this naughtiness that compelled me, no matter how much I rationalized it all away with the heat. With pencil drawings running through my brain, I felt this growing urge inside me to take my role as "lady of the house" to the next level, whatever that meant.
I remember the butterflies that fluttered in my tummy as I looked at myself in the mirror that day, my young pre-teen body clad only in tight, heart-patterned pink panties and a matching spaghetti-string tank top. I wondered if my father would find me sexy. My face was my strong point, and I felt self-aware enough to know that my large brown eyes and pouty pink lips were very pretty - Daddy certainly said so himself all the time. My black hair was long and straight, pinned back from my face with two sparkly barrettes. My skinny body worried me, as I had nothing to show at all up top except for two very excited nipples pressing against the tight cotton of my top. I liked my legs - they were lean, tan and strong, and they curved up nicely to my little bubble-butt, tautly showcased in my pink undies. I was adorable for an 11-year-old, but I knew that most men liked grown-up ladies.
Lucky for me, Daddy was not one of those men.
This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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