The Death of a Cuckold

Please complete the required fields.
Thank you for taking the time to report this Report submission to the webmaster. Please let us know why you are choosing to report this Report submission and then click the submit button at the bottom of the page



Mom must have seen me pull up, because she was the first to greet me. At first, she didn’t recognize me. I know I didn’t recognize her. Her store bought blonde hair looked fake; and you could easily see the dark roots. While the tattoos were probably a good idea at the time she got them, but not so much now. She had let herself go since she left my father. When she finally realized I was her daughter, she hugged me and I could smell the nicotine on her clothes. It was enough for me to worry about getting cancer from second hand smoke.

The ‘tearful’ reunion didn’t last long, though. I immediately asked her who my father was. At first, she tried to lie say that my father was my real father. However, I held up the letter from that laboratory out in California. She frowned and eventually said that my real father was a ‘mistake’. That she loved my father, and that my biological father was just some guy she met at the diner where she worked. They had some fling that lasted about a year, but that he skipped town one night and was never seen again.

It was about this time that this balding, pot bellied beast of a man stepped out of the trailer as well. My biological father may have been a mistake, but I realized at that point in time that the summer clothes that I chose to wear that day was a huge mistake. This ugly looking pervert eyed me like I was a piece of meat. You could almost envision this twerp jacking off to porn and having the same look in his eyes as he did that very moment when he was looking at me. This was the guy that Mom left my father for? I threw up in my mouth, and then left. And just like Mom, I never looked back.

I hate my father.

I finally met a boy, who survived a shotgun cleaning talk and endured whatever else my father could throw at him in order to make sure that he respected me and loved me for who I was as a person, and not because of my looks. I finally met a boy who could make my heart race, not with actions of living in the moment but because of the time that we spend together. All those other boys who my father protected me from had gotten girls pregnant before they even graduated high school. Some of them tried to be good fathers, but most of them ran away from their responsibilities. This boy is different. He even earned my father’s approval to ask me to marry him.

But who will walk me down the aisle? Who will give me away at my own wedding? Who will be the last man to hold mine before I become Mrs. Banks-Williams? I can’t ask my biological father to do it because I don’t even know who he is. I’m certainly not going to ask my Mom’s boyfriend, or whatever he is, to do it because the mere thought of being that close to him makes me vomit. No, my father is supposed to hand me over to my fiancé.

My father raised me like his very own daughter. He loved me as if I was his own flesh and blood. He made me feel loved, and provided for me all the things a child could ever way. He forgave my slut of a mom because he loved her and truly believed that she was sorry, when she was nothing but a cheating whore. He taught me the difference between love and lust. He taught me that love should be unconditional, but that it should also be two ways. He taught me that you should want to do all that you can for the person that you love, but as long as there is the same kind of love in return.

My father also taught me the difference between living and having a life. Living in the moment lasts but a few seconds in time. It’s forgotten before you know it. Having a life, especially with someone you love, lasts a lifetime.

My father was a wimp and a cuckold, according to some of the people in the community, but he was more of a man than any of Mom’s lovers. Tell me of a man who has the strength to accept that his daughter is not his own flesh and blood, but raise her and love her like she’s his only angel? Well, that man is my father.

I hate my father because he died before I could tell him that I love him with all my heart, and I will forever be grateful to him for the things that he taught me. And if my fiancé can’t deal with the fact that I want to hyphenate my name so that everyone will know that I am my father’s daughter first and foremost, then he doesn’t know me and doesn’t deserve me.

Please follow and like us:
4.8 4 votes
Story Rating
Pages ( 5 of 6 ): « Previous1 ... 34 5 6Next »
Subscribe
Notify of
0 Comments
Inline Feedbacks
View all comments
0
Would love your thoughts, please comment.x
()
x