“Daddy, I wet the bed again.”

I was annoyed. She was far too old to still be doing this, and it was not even the first time it had happened this week. As the kids would say: Far. Too. Old.

From the smell wafting into the my bedroom from the threshold she was standing in, I knew it was the case.

I can’t remember, really, but I feel like when I was wetting beds, I must have taken off my wet underwear after realizing what I’d done.

It had seemed at the time that this sort of behavioral aberration must be connected to the death of her mother, but maybe that’s just a comforting excuse I used to tell myself, or still do, I guess.

Either way, I rolled out of bed.

My daughter has these big, beautiful brown eyes with matching big, beautiful hair, “Hermione hair,” she calls it, after Hermione Granger from Harry Potter.

She looked guilty right then, as well she should’ve. Anyway.

We walk down the hall together and reach her bedroom. She’s pushed the comforter and blankets all the way to the foot of the bed. Right in the middle of the sheets is precisely what I knew would be there, but had still hoped wasn’t.

“I’m sorry, Daddy.”

I put my hand atop her cute little head and let out a sigh.

“Why don’t you take off your underwear, sweetie; I’m sure they’re all wet and uncomfortable,” I said.

I zoned out for just a second and came rushing back to reality when she shoved the wet cotton into my hands. I’m taken aback of course, and in looking down, I realized she was now completely naked.

Had she just been wearing panties and nothing else when she came and got me?

Hadn’t I heard the little clicks of her footie pajamas as we walked from my room to hers?

I can’t remember now.

Standing there, damp panties balled up into my fist, gazing down at her naked body, something strange happened.

It’s hard to say how the moment arrived or what got me first, but she really seemed like my late wife all of the sudden.

Something about the moistness in my hands reminded me of taking off her mother’s thong after a long makeout had gotten them soaked through.

The color of my daughter’s nipples are also the exact same color as her mother’s.

She’s too young for this, but there’s something about her ass, too. It cups in much the same way. That’s what I thought just then, I mean.

All of this hit me at once and my body was aroused.

There’d never been a point in my life when I’d disagreed with my hard-on more than right then, but there you have it, and there it was.

I tried to cover it a bit by putting my hands in front of it, but something about the new proximity of the soiled panties to my cock made it even harder.

A rush hit me and it wasn’t clear if I should fuck her or kill myself. Weird.

When I pulled myself out of my thoughts, I couldn’t tell how much time had passed. My neuroticism was trying to tell me she knew what I was thinking.

It’s always bad when your own neuroticism works in league with somebody else.

With effort, I forced myself back into reality.

Suddenly, my daughter was sitting right on the edge of the bed, far enough away from the wet splotch, fully naked, with legs spread.

It was then that I realized I would not kill myself.

I looked into her crotch, and with that, my daughter broke her alliance with the neuroticism catapulting the voices around in my head.


People sometimes talk about feeling as though, in moments of passion, it was somebody else directing their bodies, and that they can see what they’re doing like an outside observer might, but they cannot stop it.

What happened to me right then was like an evil cousin of that phenomena. It felt as though I had died long ago, with my soul leaving my body to act like an automated zombie, but that right then, right as my daughter asked “Daddy,” that soul of mine long gone finally jumped back into my skin. My actions were suddenly being directed by a better, more fully formed, version of me, for the first time in a long, long while.

The details of it all, I know you’re aware of. It’s in the notebooks of most everybody who works here, and the police report you all have access to as well.

But yeah, I told her she needed to be punished. Punished for what she’d done. I made her get on all fours in the wet spot and I spanked her. I spanked her with all my might, I spanked her until she wept and bled, and I kept spanking her after that. That was the first time, the first “contact,” I guess you could say.

It wasn’t long before she admitted she liked it, that she had wet the bed to get this attention. That she hadn’t known how else to get my attention, or at least to get my attention in regards to “private parts.” That was why she’d kept doing it, even at her age. They all say this, but I’ll say it, too: it was her idea. None of all of this would’ve happened if it hadn’t been for the kid. Those doctors called the cops, not her. It’s the truth and I’ll keep saying it.