Remembering Abuse as a Child

** Warning ** Some of this content is graphic. It may have trigger issues for some. Please read this story if you are in a good place emotionally.

Often times, throughout my years if child abuse, my father would be in his bedroom.  He would yell my name from his room and ask me to come upstairs.  It seems to me now, this was his approach when the entire family was home.  Hiding in plain site, I guess.  He would ask me to bring some baby oil so I could rub his legs because they were sore.  I couldn’t refuse to go upstairs or ask why this or that. I just had to go.  So I did.  My dad would lay on his front, on the bed in a pair of shorts, and ask me to rub his legs.  I would do this as best I could and somewhere inside me, hope that that was all he wanted.  I was always wrong.

At some point, my dad would roll over.  He would prop himself up, semi sitting, and ask me to close my eyes.  I don’t think I even spoke through all of this. What for anyway, right?  I knew what was expected of me and I just did it.  He expected me give him blow jobs but he always made sure he didn’t cum. He would ask me if I needed him to make himself smaller.  I didn’t know anything about my options but I realized the my mouth was too small to not accidentally scrape my teeth from time to time. child abuse I think he figured out that he needed to make himself smaller all by himself.  I never did it on purpose.  If he flinched I was sure I’d get in trouble.  I didn’t but, understandably, he pretty much had to start over.  That meant I had to start over.  I was usually uncomfortable, straining my neck or jaw in some weird way and emotionally numb.  I just wanted it all to end.  This had it’s own mixed feelings as the ending always meant that he would cum in my mouth.  I wanted out of there but knew the cost.  He kept me up in his room for as long as he could get away with it.

Sometimes, he would put himself away and get this sly look on his face.  He’s all like, ” you’ve been up here for awhile.  We don’t want anyone to suspect anything.  You go downstairs and get a glass of water and bring it up.  That way everyone will see you and not think anything is wrong.”  He actually explained this to me like we were both in on it.  Maybe I was supposed to be all impressed with his understanding of how wrong it would be to have a young daughter up in his room for so long.  All I knew is that I had permission to leave the room.  So, I did.

I would go downstairs, and get the glass of water but instead of going back upstairs, I would give it to my mother.  I would say something like, ” Dad’s thirsty and asked you to bring this up to him.”  I think around 12 years old I just figured that my dad didn’ t care who gave him a blow job.  It was a strange thing to know exactly what my mom would be doing upstairs when she got there with the glass of water.  I often wondered if my dad thought it was funny that I sent my mom up.  I wonder if my mom ever realized that my dad was more horny than suffering with sore legs. After all those years of child abuse, there are so many things I don’t know. I never asked either of them anything and neither parent volunteered their perspective on things.