Daddy Fucked My Ass At The Lighthouse

The lighthouse keeper"s cottage was a two-hour drive up the coast, remote and windswept. My father Arthur had rented it for the weekend, promising isolation and ocean views. He wasn"t wrong. We climbed the spiral stairs at sunset, the ocean stretching to the horizon in every direction. When the beacon started its sweep, he turned to me, and the only thing brighter than the light was the heat in his eyes.