I was nineteen when it finally happened. Home from college for the summer, the house felt smaller, hotter, like every room was holding its breath. Dad had always been the strong, quiet type—broad shoulders, rough hands from years at the construction site, that deep voice that made my stomach flip even when I was a kid. But now I was legal, and the way he looked at me had changed. Hungry. Like he was fighting it but losing.
One sticky July night, Mom was out of town visiting her sister. We were alone. I came downstairs in nothing but an old T-shirt that barely covered my ass, no panties, nipples poking through the thin cotton. Dad was on the couch in just boxers, beer in hand, TV flickering. His eyes locked on my thighs and stayed there.
"Jesus, Sarah," he muttered, voice low and rough. "You can't walk around like that."
"Why not?" I asked, stepping closer, feeling bold and wet already. "It's just us."
He set the beer down. His cock was already pushing hard against the fabric of his boxers. I could see the outline, thick and long. My mouth watered.
I climbed onto his lap without asking, straddling him. "I've wanted this for years, Daddy."
His hands grabbed my hips, fingers digging in.
"Fuck. You're my daughter. We can't—"
But his cock twitched against my bare pussy, and I ground down on it, soaking the thin material. "We can. I'm eighteen now. I'm wet for you. Feel."
I took his hand and shoved it between my legs. Two thick fingers slid through my slick folds and he groaned like he was in pain. "So fucking soaked. This is wrong."
"Then stop," I whispered, rocking against his fingers. He didn't. Instead he pushed two inside me, pumping slow and deep while his thumb found my clit. I moaned loud, head falling back.
"Goddamn, baby girl. This tight little cunt is gripping me already." He finger-fucked me harder, dirty words spilling out. "You been thinking about Daddy's cock? Been playing with this pussy at school wishing it was me?"
"Yes," I gasped. "Every night."
He yanked the T-shirt over my head and sucked a nipple into his mouth, teeth scraping. I reached down, freed his cock—hot, heavy, veins pulsing. I stroked it, smearing precum over the head.
"Suck it," he ordered, voice dark. I slid to my knees between his spread legs and took him deep. He tasted salty, masculine. I gagged on the thick length but kept going, drool running down my chin while he held my hair and fucked my throat.
"Look at you, choking on Daddy's dick like a little slut. My little girl. Fuck, that's good."
When he was close he pulled me up, spun me around, and bent me over the arm of the couch. One hard thrust and he was buried inside me, stretching me open. We both groaned.
"So fucking tight," he growled, pounding into me. Skin slapped. His balls hit my clit with every thrust. "This is what you wanted? Daddy ruining your cunt?"
"Yes, Daddy, harder!"
He grabbed my hair, pulled my head back, and railed me until my legs shook. Then he flipped me onto my back, hooked my knees over his shoulders, and fucked me deep and slow, eyes locked on mine.
"Going to fill you up," he warned. "Pump my cum right into my daughter's pussy."
I came first, clenching around him, screaming his name. He followed seconds later, flooding me with hot spurts, hips jerking as he emptied every drop.
We didn't stop there. He carried me to his bed—Mom's bed—and we fucked again. Missionary, me on top riding him, then doggy with his thumb in my ass. Every time he called me his good girl, his dirty little daughter, and I came harder each time.
By morning we were sticky, sore, and already planning the next night. It was wrong. It was filthy. And neither of us wanted to stop.
