Mahal Kong Anak at Mahal Kong Ama

Dear Father,

(I use the word “dear” loosely, for I cannot really say that you are dear to me.)

Twenty-four years ago, you brought me into this world; a bouncing, crying baby with soft down on her head and a cheery disposition. I remember how you looked at me then – so full of joy and love.

I spent the next twenty-four years yearning to see those eyes again.

I was the second of four girls. Four beautiful, intelligent girls who were born into a world of material comfort that you and my mother had built for us through the profitable construction business that you inherited from your own father.

My early days were full of sunshine. I spent them laughing and crawling and playing. I would bring you sticks and things, wonders discovered in the mud.

Love me, father. Love me, I had said then, as you looked up only for the briefest of moments from your newspaper at the treasures I had brought you.

I took up ballet nearly as soon as I could walk. It was my dream to be a ballerina, you see. Like those pretty girls you see on television, with their beautiful pink dresses, their elegant pirouettes and plies. And I was good at it. My slender build and natural grace very quickly made me the prima ballerina among my peers. I was the youngest girl ever in my class to do a proper fouette turn while en pointe, did you know?

I remember how full of pride I was during the encore, when the spotlight was on me and the crowd clapped and cheered and my teacher handed me a bouquet of flowers nearly as big as I was.

Love me, father. Love me, I had thought then, as I looked up to the stands and saw an empty seat in the second row next to my mother and my sisters.

When I was old enough to enroll grade school, my mother enrolled me in the exclusive school located within our subdivision. Your alma mater, I understand. Yours and my mother’s.

It was easy for me to become popular. I was pretty, and pleasant, which endeared me to my classmates. I was smart and active in class, which endeared me to the teachers. I became class president, and head of our cheerleading squad. I was consistently earning top honors. I was admired. I had suitors, boys and girls both, from my year and older.

Did you know that I once had a suitor, the heartthrob of my school’s senior high school class, pursuing me as a sixth grader? I was the envy of my friends, and yet I turned him down – my heart was elsewhere, in my dance and in my grades.

Love me, father. Love me, my heart pleaded, each time my mother would arrive alone to my school activities; each time that she would join parent-teacher conferences without you by her side.

My first real relationship came when I was a freshman in high school. He was a nice boy. Good-looking and sweet. We used to play together as children, do you remember? He used to come to the house and we would swim in our pool and splash around and make a mess of things.

He was my first love, and I hurt him. Deeply, when I told him I was leaving him for another man. An older boy, a senior, with a nasty reputation and a bad aura about him.

I was angry at you, you see. I hurt this boy that I knew you would approve of, in favor of one that you would not.

He took my virginity one night in the back seat of his car. It hurt when he claimed it for himself, another notch among the many already on his barrel. It was far from the fairy tale that I had always imagined for myself, and I wondered to myself as I lay there, with him thrusting roughly, painfully into me, if my nice, sweet boy would have been more gentle.

Love me, father. Love me, were the words that underscored each pained gasp and forced moan that escaped my lips as he tore my insides in his rampage towards his own release.

He left me two days later. On to greener, more virginal pastures, I presumed. But I didn’t care. I threw myself at other men. I amassed a number of partners as I learned the ways of my body and grew to enjoy six.

I would come home in the wee hours of the morning, my clothes rumpled, my hair awry, and my womanhood filled to dripping by the semen of strange men and boys I had met at bars and clubs and school parties.

They would take me in bathrooms, in cars, in back alleys. They would take me from behind, pounding into me, stuttering their lust into the night with my face pressed painfully against the wall as I grimaced from pain and pleasure.

I would take them into my mouth, my lips expertly working their lengths as they emptied their load into my throat, my tongue teasing every last drop from their hardness.

Men and boys, stretching my purity wide with their obscene manhood, sending fire and electricity shooting down my veins. They would climax inside me, because I knew it would hurt you that they did.

Love me, father. Love me. Acknowledge me. Recognize me, my eyes pleaded each time my mother admonished me and I would see you shaking your head from a distance before walking away.

She left us, that year. She took my younger sisters and left, and it was just you, myself, and my older sister; and when she went to university in Stanford the following year, it was just you and I.

It made me even angrier. This beautiful, loving woman you drove away left me starved for even the littlest scraps of affection that I have known. My sisters, my partners, my friends – far away.

From the school’s golden girl, the princess who could do no wrong, I became known as the wanton woman. I welcomed all men between my legs, whoever they were, anyone who wanted a taste. And they all wanted a taste, for you see, I was still beautiful, and my years of dancing have made me flexible, and have given me mastery over the contractions and movements of each part of my body. Yes, father, each part of my body. Men described my vagina as having the dexterity of a hand, massaging their length until they could bear it no longer and they exploded inside me, filling my womb with their sperm.

I would school younger boys in the sixual arts. For many young men I was their first foray into the pleasures of the flesh; and for older men I tempted them with my youth and my beauty and they would go willingly to my bed. They would fall me in the bed you paid for, in the house you built, in the home that was now bereft of anything remotely resembling family. They would fall me in the bathrooms in school, in the darkness of movie theaters, or in cheap motels that would accept students in school uniforms.

I would moan out loud, cry out in pleasure with no guilt or shame in my voice, knowing you could hear me, hear the men rutting wildly into my wetness, hear us as we climaxed and falled well into the night.

Love me, father. Love me, each nocturnal moan and gasp shouted through the thin walls that separated our rooms.

The darkest night came one night, when I arrived home from prom. I was prom princess, did you know? I missed being queen only because a girl with down’s syndrome was in my year, and she was awarded the recognition simply for showing up.

You were still up that night, with people from your work. Unsavory characters – the foremen and managers from the lower classes that you associated with; men who would look less out of place on Most Wanted posters than they did in the finery of our house.

You were all drunk, and merry, and I could see them leering at my young, supple body, my smooth, flawless skin, and my toned figure. I could see them licking their lips as they undressed me with their eyes, imagining all of the nasty things they would do to me.

You passed out that night, your head falling onto your arms on the dining table, snoring loudly. I joined your “friends” that night, knowing you wouldn’t approve. They teased and joked with me, words ripe with sixual innuendo, and I teased and joked right back, still dressed in my beautiful gown with my prom princess sash slung over my shoulder.

Do you know what I did then? I challenged them to poker. The stakes were a piece of clothing each time one plays a losing hand.

I played my part well – the innocent little girl wanting to swim in the deep end of the pool with the big boys, not knowing what she was getting into, losing round after round until my naked body was on full display for these lecherous creatures who hungrily devoured me with their eyes.

The thing is, I’m very good at poker. But I threw the rounds. I lost on purpose, father, because I knew that they hated you nearly as much as I did. You pretended to be one of them, commiserating with their hardships, when you yourself were born into a world of privilege and luxury, and for whom everything came easy. They told me so that night. Have you ever worried about where your next meal will come from, father? Have you ever lost your house because you couldn’t afford to pay the rent? They did.

You’re not one of them, father, and they used you and abused you for everything they could give, until the only thing they could take was your young, beautiful daughter and her sweet, fresh body.

Love me, father. Love me, the words rang in my head each time I folded on purpose, or pushed when I should have folded.

At one point, I lost, and the men sat wondering what my next move would be, for I was already sitting there naked as the day I was born, with nothing but my prom princess sash slung around my shoulder.

What’s a girl to do, I had wondered then aloud. I don’t want to take off my sash – that would mean I’m not a princess anymore, I had said mischievously.

You know what I did then, father? I led one of your men, I took one of your dirty men by the hand and led him into the bathroom, where I got on my knees and sucked his cock. I licked it, and nibbled on his balls, and slid my tongue along his length, and bobbed my head up and down on it until he exploded all over my face and my hair. His seed splattered onto my almond-shaped eyes, my perfectly-shaped nose, and onto my lips, where my tongue flickered out hungrily to scoop it up.

He wanted to cum in my mouth, you know. I insisted he do it on my face. So everyone would see it when I came back to the table.

Love me, father. Love me, I whispered each time I took him into my mouth, each time he fired shot after shot of his thick, white seed onto my beautifully made-up face and onto my meticulously styled hair.

I lost round after round following that encounter – eventually I stopped taking them into the bathroom and I would service them right then and there, these dirty men being sucked off by your little princess just an arm’s length from where you lay sleeping, their dark, ugly cocks disappearing into my soft, pink lips and then emerging, gleaming with my saliva before I devoured them again, moaning softly as I tasted the salty sweat on their length, until they exploded in my mouth, or on my body, showering me with their lust.

And you know what, father? It made me wet. I was so very wet knowing how painful it would be for you to see me being used like this, and to see me loving every moment of it.

Love me, father. Love me, I thought as you snored and mumbled in your sleep as my lips suckled on yet another man’s turgid manhood, coaxing him to climax with my mouth and tongue and hands.

When next I lost, one of your men sat back on his chair, his cock standing proudly from a tangled mass of unkempt pubic hair, waiting for me to lower my head onto it yet again. It was ugly and misshapen, not perfectly formed and beautiful like the boys from my school. It had veins running up and down its length and it seemed bent at an unnatural angle and the length was dark with an angry, swollen red coloring its head.

I surprised them all by straddling him instead. I took his grotesque manhood in my hand and pointed it at the opening to my vagina and lowered myself onto it, gasping and moaning as it penetrated me and filled me completely.

He was the man seated right next to you, do you remember him? That short, fat man with the pockmarked face and dark skin and the tattoos all over his arms? He had a big cock, father. The biggest I’ve had, and it pleased me greatly.

I wish I could say I was making it a show as I rode him, grinding and impaling myself onto it, moaning loudly and gasping each time it retreated and plunged into me again, but I wasn’t. I loved every minute of it.

I rode him until he came, filling me up so thoroughly that it dripped from my pussy when I raised myself off of him.

Love me, father. Love me, I gasped and moaned incoherently through the haze of pleasure I was lost in.

I lost the next round again, naturally. The next man didn’t wait. He bent me over the table roughly, so that I was looking straight at you, and he falled me from behind. He did it hard, almost painfully, just like how I love it. He pulled my hair and cursed at me while he pounded into me, each deep thrust tearing the air from my lungs until I was gasping for breath and clawing at the table as I was brought to my umpteenth orgasm.

Love me, father! Love me! My heart cried as my eyes were fixed on your comatose form.

They took me, over and over, those men. Those dirty, awful, nasty men using my body as they pleased as I begged them to fill me, to use me, to fall me, to make me cum. I begged them to fall me, father, I begged them to do me, hard and rough and fast, and they did. On my back on the table, with my legs spread lewdly apart so you could see their ugly cocks pillaging my tiny pussy. With them on their backs and me on top, riding them like the wanton, lustful woman that I was. From behind. On the seat. Missionary, cowgirl, wheelbarrow, every position that came to mind, they took me in, father. I encouraged them to. I told them I wanted more, that I wanted them to take me over and over and over again.

They kissed me farther, and I kissed back, lustfully, our tongues dancing obscenely as I pressed my beautiful face and questing lips against theirs, my hand on the back of their heads, pulling them in hungrily.

You were just an arm’s length away, father, from my ass that was sliding violently back and forth on the table just in front of your nose as they falled and me.

Love me! Love me! Love me! Recognize me! Acknowledge me! I screamed at you as I came yet again, so hard that my legs collapsed beneath me and I became a trembling heap of pleasure on the floor. Stupid from the innumerable orgasms that had shorted the circuits of my brain until there was nothing left but lust and pleasure and want.

Love me! Love me! Love me!

And yet, I got no reply; nor did I expect one.

Did you never wonder, father, why I suddenly took an interest to visiting your job sites? Your men would take me in their barracks, father. I’ve made my rounds at least once with each and every one of your workers, and those dirty, tattered sheets that you give them are stained through with your darling daughter’s sweet juices as your men made her cum again and again on their hard cocks. I came many times on those sheets, father, my legs shaking, losing control of my body, moaning and screaming in pleasure, begging for more, again and again until they themselves were at the verge of their climax. I’d tell the to finish inside me, father, and they would. They would thrust in all the way, their pelvises grinding against mine, my legs wrapped tight around their waists, urging them deeper into me, and they peaked, filling me up with so much seed that it trickled down my legs when they were through.

And did you never wonder why they would suddenly come to the house to fix things that didn’t need fixing? It’s because they would fall me, father. In my room, in the kitchedn, in the bathroom, in your bedroom. Yes, father, even in your bedroom; on the bed that you and mother conceived me in. Your beautiful princess with her beautiful white skin and her beautiful face, the plaything of nasty men who used her body in ways that would make you weep.

They came on me, on my breasts and on my stomach and on my ass, they came inside me, inside my mouth and inside my pussy. I would call them in the dead of the night and sneak them into my room where they would pound into me until they were sated. I would invite them to visit me in school, where we would fall like rabbits in the car that you had bought for me. I didn’t care who saw me – if anyone did, I’d fall them too, such was the dark miasma of lust that had consumed me.

Your men liked to think that they used me, father, but the truth is, I used them. They were ugly, dirty, and nasty men, but for every ounce of pleasure they took from my young body, I received back a hundredfold. The duality of the pleasures of the flesh, their hips lunging powerfully forward to send their ugly cocks deeper into my beautiful body, contorting my beautiful face into lewd expressions of lust, and the knowledge that each powerful stab of their cocks into my wet and willing pussy was a wooden stake into your heart drove me to one orgasm after another.

Each scream, each cry, each moan called, Love me, father! Love me! Love me! Love me!

Love me, father. For the love of God. Please love me.

The following year, I went to college abroad, and I left my sordid past behind.

I left you behind.

It was a time of genesis for me, a new beginning. A new life that wasn’t ruled by a desire to please you, or by a desire to fill the gaping emptiness in my heart.

I met a boy there. A man. He was kind and loving, and we eventually married. When we did, I wasn’t surprised that you couldn’t make it. And when I got the news that you were passing soon, I decided to write you this letter as a final goodbye.

We have a baby on the way, father. I learned that I couldn’t conceive, which was no surprise, given how many men had emptied their seed into me over the years, so my husband and I commissioned a surrogate, and she is carrying our child.

I want nothing of yours. Keep your inheritance, or give it away, it matters little to me. I will never be as wealthy as we were, but if nothing else, I promise that my child will grow in a house filled with happiness and love and warmth.

Never will she cry love me, mother. Love me, father. Love me.

Goodbye, father. You never loved me.

Yours Truly,

Your Daughter
Post Merge: July 24, 2014, 10:05:26 AM
Dear Daughter,

(I use the word dearly, for you are dear to me; dearest of all my daughters.)

I am writing this letter because I do not have much time.

Twenty-four years ago, you came into this world; a bouncing, crying baby with soft down on your head and a cheery disposition. I looked at you then, you tiny little thing, with eyes full of joy and love.

I yearned to show you those kind, loving eyes again, my daughter, but I never knew how.

You see, I was the second of three, an older sister and a younger brother. My older sister was the smart one; the pride of the family. She was smart, and savvy. She had a killer instinct for business, and turned down her inheritance from my father. It was hers by right as the eldest, but the business she put up herself put my family’s to shame.

My younger brother was a prince of a man. There wasn’t a single creature with a beating heart that would not love him. He was warm, and kind, and endearing. He got the lion’s share of the inheritance, do you know? He owns more of the company than we do.

And I? I was neither. I was not as smart, nor as lovable as either of my siblings.

My early days were lonely. I would play alone, while my father mentored my sister and my mother showered her affection on my brother. I had nobody to show my treasures to, my sticks and things discovered in the mud.

Love me, father. Love me, mother, I had whispered to myself in the loneliness of aan empty house.

But I never knew how to love.

You see, my daughter, I loved you. You the most, with all my heart and soul. You were the best of my sister, the best of my brother, everything that I wished I could be.

I remember your first ballet recital, how gracefully you did your pirouettes and plies, how young you were when you did a proper fouette turn while en pointe. I was so full of pride that I wept, and I had to leave the auditorium to gather myself.

I loved you, my daughter, but I never learned how to love, I thought to myself as I stood outside smoking, overcome with emotion while you saw an empty seat in the second row next to your mother and sisters.

When you were in grade school, you enrolled in my alma mater. Such happy memories I had there, the small comforts I had in my life, and I was glad that you did. I wished for you all the happiness that I did not know how to give you.

You were popular. Smart, beautiful, and lovable, those around you loved you easily. You were class president, head of the cheer squad, and consistently earning top honors.

I never went to your parent-teacher conferences. I would be out, looking for the perfect little things that you loved, for your mother to give to you as gestures of our pride and congratulations.

I would not attend your school activities because I would not be able to control myself. I would sit alone, at home, proud simply by the fact that you were a bright shining star, blazing brighter than I had ever hoped to ever burn myself.

At home, I would grunt my acknowledgement of your accomplishments, because if I were to speak a single word, it would betray the trembling in my voice, or cause a tear to fall from my eye, such was my pride and love for you.

I loved you, but I never learned how to love.

Did you know that I sat down with your first boyfriend? He was a good boy, and came to ask permission from me before he courted you. We talked about what would make you happy, and I told him about all the things you loved, and all the things that mattered to you.

All the things that I knew but I didn’t know how to give myself.

He was a wonderful boy. Bright and attractive, and enamored with you.

I fell into a depression when you left him, for I knew he could give you the happiness you so deserved. I never knew your other men, but I knew of them.

I knew you cried for help; I knew you were calling for me to love you, but I did not know the words or the actions that would save you.

I loved you, my daughter, but I never learned how to love.

I would watch, helpless and lost, each time you came home. I wringed my hands and pulled at my hair and I wept in my room, wept for my princess, for what men who didn’t love you had done to you.

I loved you, my daughter, but I never learned how to love.

Your mother left us that year, with your younger sisters.

We never loved each other, did you know? In our younger, more lustful days, we conceived your older sister before we were ready. Before I knew how to love. She didn’t love me, and I didn’t love her, and it soon became too much for us.

But you, my daughter, I loved.

I knew of your nocturnal activities. I heard the rumors. I saw the signs.

I heard your nightly exertions through the thing walls of our home, and I lay awake in bed, anguished. I didn’t know what to do, my daughter. I didn’t know what to do, or what to say. The more you tried to reach out to me, the further away you fell, and I did not know the words or actions that would bring me to you.

I showered you with presents – the car you drove, the pretty things you liked to wear. I bought you everything your heart desired, I gave you everything I knew how to give. I loved you in the only ways I knew how.

I loved you, my daughter, but I never learned how to love.

I knew everything, my daughter. A father always knows, but I did not know what to do. How to reach out. How to save you.

I loved you, my daughter. For the love of God, I love you with all of my heart and my soul.

It was in desperation that I sent you away. I loved you so much, that I could not bear to see what had happened to the sweet, beautiful princess that I loved so much. It pained me that I had destroyed when all I ever wanted in life was to love you.

But I never learned how to love.

You were my rock, my reason for being, and when you left, I fell sick. All the life was sucked out of me, but you were safe, and that was all that mattered to me.

Bust still I clung on, hoping against hope that you would need me and I could be there. I clung on, fighting for life in an empty house, until I was too weak to even attend your wedding. They had to wrestle me onto my hospital bed, did you know? I was shouting and crying for you. I wanted to be there, to look into the eyes of the man who would take my place and care for you for the rest of your life. I had to content myself with watching the video, which your mother had sent me.

I cannot have been more proud, seeing at my beautiful little girl who had become a woman, and the man standing at her side, gazing at you with the same eyes I laid upon you when you first drew breath.

I was content, then, and shed no tears. I knew that I could rest, for you had found someone who could keep you safe in ways that I never could.

Forgive me, my daughter, for never learning how to love.

I feared emotion, you see. I feared its fragility, its ephemeralness. In the dark, joyless emptiness of my childhood, emotion was something to be cherished. I would keep it in a tiny box in my heart, I would keep it safe, until in the privacy of my own solitude, I could take it out, oh so carefully, and cradle it in my hands and hold it close to my breast where nobody could take it away. I would handle it gently, for I feared its brightness would be diminished in the bright light of day.

I wish I had learned how to love.

Now, in my dying days, alone as in my childhood, my little box of treasures brings me comfort. I thank you, my dear daughter, for filling it with your joy, laughter, pride, and even your pain and tears. I make no excuses for not knowing how to love. But do know although I never learned how to show it, I loved you truly and deeply in my own way.

Raise your child in happiness, and in love, my daughter. Never let her cry love me, mother. Love me, father.

Goodbye, my daughter. I loved you, I truly did, and I hope you will forgive an old man who never learned how to love.

Yours Truly,

Your Father