I beg my 15 yr daughter to join. Asifa is broken in by her trans freind infront of me.
Asifa came home just as the last of the afternoon light was turning soft and gold against the windows. The house was quiet. Farida had gone to her sister’s for the evening. Trisha was not there. It was only the two of us when she stepped into the living room, college bag still hooked over one shoulder, the ordinary tiredness of a long day of lectures on her face.
She stopped when she saw me sitting on the edge of the sofa, hands clasped tightly between my knees. Something in my posture must have told her this was not a normal conversation.
“Papa?” she said carefully. “What is it?”
I had rehearsed the words a hundred times in my head and still they felt like broken glass in my mouth. I asked her to sit. She did, watching me with the quiet attentiveness she had always had, even as a little girl. I looked at the floor for a long moment before I could force the first sentence out.
“I need to tell you something that will change how you see me,” I said. My voice was already unsteady. “I have been… involved with Trisha. Not as a father should be. Not as a man should be.”
Asifa’s face went completely still. I forced myself to continue, the shame rising so thick I could taste it at the back of my throat. I told her about the afternoon I first saw Trisha in her room, about the way I had stood in the hallway with the door slightly open and touched myself while I watched. I told her about the photographs I had taken of my own wet, leaking cock every two hours for five days and sent to her. I told her about kneeling on the front porch where any neighbour might have seen me. I told her I had drunk piss from Trisha’s cock. I had pressed my face between her cheeks and cleaned her after she used the toilet. I had begged to be fucked. I had come from being used while my own small, circumcised cock leaked thin, almost clear fluid onto the sheets. I told her Farida knew now—that Farida had felt what a real cock could do and had looked at me afterward with something that was no longer only disappointment.
Asifa’s hands tightened on the edge of the sofa until her knuckles went white. Her voice, when it came, was quiet and sharp with disbelief.
“You’re lying.”
“I’m not.” I finally lifted my eyes to hers. The look on her face cut deeper than any of the humiliation I had already accepted. “I am the man in those photographs. I am the one who gets on his knees. I am the one who loves the shame of it. I am not the father you thought I was.”
She stood up so quickly the bag slipped from her shoulder and hit the floor with a dull sound. “Stop. I don’t want to hear this.”
I stayed seated. The next words were harder than anything I had said so far. I told her I wanted Trisha to take her virginity. That I was begging for it. That I would prepare her myself if she allowed it. That the thought of watching the same thick cock that owned me open my own daughter made something dark and grateful twist in my chest.
Asifa stared at me as if she no longer recognised the man in front of her. “No. Absolutely not. I have Arjun. I don’t need any of this. You’re sick.”
I slid from the sofa onto my knees on the living-room rug. The position felt more honest than standing. I pressed my forehead to the floor in front of her shoes and began to speak the truth of what I had become, each sentence peeling away another layer of the man I used to pretend to be.
“I am nothing,” I said, voice muffled against the carpet. “A toilet. A hole. A dog who drinks what he is given and thanks them for it. I come from being fucked in the ass like a bitch. My cock is four inches and circumcised and so useless your mother can’t even feel it when I’m inside her. I love being less than the women in this house. I love the moment when the last scrap of dignity leaves me and all that remains is the need to be used. Please. Let Trisha open you. Let me watch. Let me prepare you with my mouth. I am begging you as the broken thing I am.”
The silence that followed was long enough that I could hear the ordinary sounds of the neighbourhood outside—someone calling a child home, a scooter passing, the faint clatter of dishes from a neighbour’s kitchen. When Asifa finally spoke, her voice was quieter than before, stripped of its earlier anger, left only with something that sounded almost like exhausted curiosity.
“One time,” she said. “Only because you’re already this far gone, and I need to understand what has happened to you. Call her.”
I reached for my phone with hands that would not stop shaking and made the call. Trisha arrived twenty minutes later. She entered without surprise, as if she had been waiting for exactly this moment. Asifa stood rigid near the window while Trisha and I went upstairs first. I returned alone and held out my hand to my daughter.
“Come,” I said softly. “I’ll be careful.”
In the bedroom the light was softer, the curtains half-drawn. I helped Asifa undress with hands that trembled so badly I had to steady them against her shoulders. She lay back on the bed. There was blood—fresh, bright—on the insides of her thighs. The sight of it made something in my chest twist with a grief that was almost tender. I lowered my mouth without being told and licked her open, tasting copper and heat and the soft, trembling reality of her. I was careful. I cleaned every trace, sucking gently until the blood was gone from her skin and she was wet beneath my tongue. She watched me the entire time, one hand resting lightly on the back of my head as if she were deciding, moment by moment, whether to push me away or let me continue.
Trisha undressed fully and knelt between Asifa’s legs. Her heavy uncut cock was already hard, the foreskin drawn back, the head dark and glistening. She pressed forward slowly. The stretch was careful, almost tender. Asifa’s breath caught; her fingers tightened in the sheets. Trisha did not thrust hard. She moved in long, patient strokes, letting the thick shaft open her inch by inch, pausing whenever the resistance grew too sharp, murmuring soft encouragement that sounded almost like affection. It was passionate in its restraint—deep, steady, the kind of fucking that left no room for anything except the sensation of being filled for the first time. Asifa’s eyes stayed open. Soft sounds left her mouth. When she came it was quiet and shaking, her body tightening around the cock that had taken her virginity, her hand reaching blindly until it found Trisha’s wrist and held on.
I stayed on my knees beside the bed, watching, my own small cock hard and leaking against my thigh. The humiliation of being the father who had begged for this, who had cleaned the blood with his mouth, who now watched his daughter being opened by the same thick cock that owned him, filled me with a dark, grateful heat that made my eyes sting. I begged to be used while they finished. Trisha pulled out of Asifa, still hard, and pushed into my mouth so I could clean her. Then she turned me around and fucked my ass in the same slow, deep rhythm until I came untouched onto the floor, thin spurts that she made me lick up afterward while Asifa watched in silence.
When it was over, Asifa sat up slowly, pulling the sheet around herself. She looked at me for a long time—at the man on his knees, face still wet, small cock soft and spent, the last pieces of the father she had known completely gone.
She did not speak. She only reached out and touched my hair once, briefly, the way one might touch something already broken and accepted.
Then she looked at Trisha and said, quietly, “Next time, my mother should be here too.”
Trisha nodded.
I remained on the floor, forehead pressed to the cool tiles, the taste of both of them still thick in my mouth, and felt the final shape of my new life settle over me like a second skin I no longer wanted to remove.
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