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Excerpt from the memoirs of Stan R. Shealton, published author: ".a few hours later slowly escaping from the dream, I felt like I was leaving a place I had been for years, as though I belonged there. I woke with the images still in my vision and the most sensual feeling of waves of luscious moisture rushing over my body.

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I continued moaning uncontrollably, my feet digging into the mattress allowing my hips to flow forward, over and over again. Realizing at that moment I was gripping something I looked down to see my daughter's eyes closed and her slobbery, soaked mouth stretched wide around my cock. It was then that I realized where I was. It was Thursday and my wife had gone off to yoga class and laid our daughter in our bed with me as she did every week because she didn't like her being alone in her crib." There was something just not right about the relationship between my father and I.

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At age fifteen I finally ran across his memoirs after two years of sneaking around his office. After dousing my mother with health questions I confirmed her yoga schedule many years ago and came to the realization that I am not now, nor have I ever been, in the need for a psychiatrist to tell me I must take Prozac.

To finish silently reading his memoirs would engulf me in the knowledge that there were many places on my infantile body my father would use for his selfish pleasure. My naked bottom, my nubile little pussy, he would even use my tiny feet.

Is this why I have such terrible oral fixations now and still dream of my daddy in bed with me?

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I also never seem to be able to get completely clean and scrub myself in the shower as if there is a sticky substance on my face and legs that won't ever come off. Excerpt from memoirs(page 39): "I felt a bit nauseous the first time I pulled her from under the sheets to lay her head on my pillow giving her a kiss goodnight as I drifted back off to my dreams and a load of my semen appeared to be drooling from the corner of her mouth.

It was then I began prying into her other orifices like some sex-craved lunatic. I still cannot account for my behavior other than to say it was atrocious, at best, and that I became this malignant being almost addicted to something I knew I should not be doing.


If only I had been able to resist any future temptation after that first dreaded accident, denying any further requests from my wife to allow her to put our daughter into our bed for her own safety." Leaving with no guilt and $40,000 in cash from the hiding place that a loose floorboard covered in his private office, I would walk out that day with the intention of never again laying eyes on my mother and father. If you ask me now why I came back to such a dark place for me just to watch them pass by I guess I would have to say it's because I wonder; I wonder what might have been had my dad been able to control his selfish urges after that one fatal mistake.

I wonder if they think about me.

I wonder what their lives are like now, nine years after the fact. Does my father know that I know? He must, considering the memoirs were hidden in the same place as his emergency money. I'm sure though he has never told my mother. I don't watch the news so I have no idea if I was ever on a missing children's television show or if I'd just been considered a runaway. Taking into account that my father ejaculated in me or on me more times than anyone else will in my entire lifetime and then sent me out to shrink after shrink trying to find out why I had psychological problems, I thought I had the right to be pissed.

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It's always after a night of clubbing and heavy drinking that I come here, to see if they will notice me. As you can see in the picture I snapped with the remote on my camera, they finally looked my way.

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I've only been doing this for two years, it's about time. But who's to say they noticed me for me and not just some chick who hangs out here too often? If my father actually noticed me for who I am would he acknowledge me or just keep walking?


I have changed a lot in attitude and appearance, I am no longer blonde and no longer the meek child I once was. I speak my mind now as if I truly have something to say. So why don't I just rush up to them?

Well, for one thing I am wearing these shoes and honestly I just wouldn't know what to say. I wonder how many more girls like me are out there, with the knowledge of such an unspeakable personal experience and no way to effectively heal without destroying more than has been already.


I miss them but I will never let them know, never let them see me again or even confirm that I am alive beyond a shadow of a doubt. They don't deserve that right. I may even send them an anonymous postcard from time to time just to make them wonder and keep the pain alive. Excerpt from memoirs(page 179, final entry): Men are pigs. A man, however, can be evil if he so chooses. Given the opportunity and the right set of circumstances an individual male is capable of more than he knows and more destruction than he can ever imagine.