She was twenty-two when it finally happened, home from college for the summer and walking around the house in nothing but his old t-shirts. The fabric barely covered her ass, and every time she bent over he caught a flash of pink cotton and smooth skin. He told himself to stop looking. He told himself it was wrong. Then one humid July night she came into his bedroom after midnight, shut the door, and said, “I know you’ve been watching me, Daddy. I want you to do more than watch.”
He didn’t answer with words. He grabbed her by the hips, spun her around, and bent her over the edge of the mattress. The t-shirt rode up. He yanked her panties down in one rough pull and slapped her bare ass hard enough to leave a red handprint. She gasped but pushed back against him, already wet. He freed his cock, thick and heavy, and rubbed the head through her slick folds without warning.
“Fuck, you’re dripping,” he growled. “This what you wanted? Your daddy’s dick?”
“Yes,” she breathed. “Please.”
He drove into her in one hard thrust.
She cried out, fingers clawing the sheets, but she took every inch. He didn’t give her time to adjust. He fucked her the way he’d been fantasizing for months—deep, fast, relentless. The wet slap of skin on skin filled the room. Every time he bottomed out she moaned louder, pushing back to meet him. He reached under her, found her clit, and rubbed it in tight circles while he pounded her.
“Such a dirty little girl,” he said through gritted teeth. “Letting your daddy stretch this tight cunt.”
She came hard, legs shaking, pussy clenching around him. He didn’t stop. He pulled out, flipped her onto her back, and shoved her knees to her chest. He slid back inside and fucked her even deeper, watching her tits bounce with every thrust. She reached down and spread herself wider for him, eyes glassy with lust.
“Harder,” she begged. “Use me.”
He slammed into her until the headboard cracked against the wall. Sweat ran down his chest. Her second orgasm hit with a broken sob and she squirted around his cock, soaking his balls and the sheets. He pulled out at the last second, stroked himself twice, and painted thick ropes across her stomach and tits. She rubbed it into her skin while he watched, then sucked his fingers clean.
They didn’t talk about it the next morning. They didn’t need to. That night she came back again, and the night after that. Sometimes he took her in the shower, pressing her against the tile while hot water streamed over them. Sometimes he bent her over the kitchen counter while dinner burned on the stove. She learned to keep quiet when he fucked her with the windows open, neighbors just a fence away. She learned to beg for his cum in her mouth, on her face, deep inside her.
By the end of summer the house smelled like sex and they stopped pretending it was anything else. She was his. He was hers. And every time he sank into her, raw and filthy and exactly what they both needed, the only words that mattered were the ones she whispered against his ear right before she came:
“Harder, Daddy. Don’t stop.”
