I never planned for it to happen. I was twenty-two, home from college for the summer, and Dad was the only person I trusted with the mess my life had become. One late night after too much wine and too many confessions about my failed relationships, the air between us changed. He sat across from me at the kitchen table, shirt unbuttoned at the collar, his voice low and rough when he said my name like he was tasting it for the first time.
We didn’t talk about it the next morning. We didn’t need to. The second night I wore a thin tank top and nothing underneath, and when I leaned over to grab a glass his eyes followed the sway of my breasts like he’d been starving for years. His hand brushed my hip “by accident,” and the spark that shot through me made my thighs press together on their own.
By the third night I was in his bed.
He didn’t ask. He simply pulled the sheet back and I climbed in, heart hammering. His mouth found mine in the dark, hungry and certain. “You sure about this, baby girl?” he murmured against my lips.
I answered by reaching down and wrapping my fingers around his cock, already thick and hot. “I’ve wanted this since I was old enough to know what wanting meant.”
He groaned, the sound raw, and rolled me onto my back. His weight settled over me, solid and familiar in the wrong, perfect way. He kissed down my throat, teeth scraping, then lower, sucking one nipple into his mouth while his hand slid between my legs. I was already slick, embarrassingly so, and he made a filthy sound when his fingers slipped through my folds.
“Fuck, you’re dripping for Daddy.”
The word made me clench around nothing. I arched up, shameless, and he took the invitation, sliding two thick fingers inside me while his thumb circled my clit. He worked me slow and deliberate, learning exactly how I liked it, until I was gasping his name and coming hard around his hand.
He didn’t give me time to recover.
He pushed my thighs wider, lined up, and sank into me in one long thrust. The stretch burned in the best way. I clawed at his back, legs locking around his waist, and he started moving—deep, steady strokes that hit every spot I’d never been able to reach myself.
“Been thinking about this pussy for years,” he growled against my ear. “Tight little cunt was made for me.”
I came again, harder, sobbing his name while he fucked me through it. He flipped me onto my stomach, pulled my hips up, and drove back in. The new angle made me see stars. His hand fisted in my hair, the other gripping my hip hard enough to bruise, and he used me exactly the way I’d always secretly wanted—rough, possessive, like he owned every inch.
When he finally came, he buried himself to the hilt and stayed there, pulsing hot inside me while he whispered how good I felt, how perfect, how much he’d needed this. We collapsed together, sweaty and shaking, and he pulled me against his chest without letting go.
We didn’t stop. Every night after that I ended up in his bed, sometimes on the couch, once bent over the kitchen counter while dinner burned on the stove. He taught me how he liked his cock sucked, how deep he could fuck my throat before I gagged. I learned the exact pressure that made him curse and spill down my throat. He learned that I came fastest when he called me his dirty little girl and told me exactly what a slut I was for wanting my own father’s cock.
One afternoon he took me out to the old barn behind the property. Sunlight slanted through the boards while he bent me over a hay bale, yanked my shorts down, and fucked me standing up, one hand over my mouth to keep me quiet even though no one else was around for miles. I came so hard my legs gave out; he caught me and kept thrusting until he filled me again.
We never labeled it. We didn’t need to. It was raw and secret and ours. When summer ended and I had to go back to school, he drove me. In the hotel the night before move-in, he spent hours between my legs, licking and sucking until I was hoarse from begging, then fucked me slow and deep like he was trying to leave a permanent mark.
I still go home every break. The bed in my old room stays made, but I never sleep there. Dad’s room is warmer anyway, and the sheets always smell like us.
He still calls me his baby girl when he’s deep inside me. I still answer like it’s the only name I’ve ever wanted.
