I had just turned twenty-one when it started, but the wanting had been there for years. That summer I moved back home after college, and the house felt smaller, hotter, tighter with just the two of us. Dad had always been the quiet one, the provider, the man who fixed everything with his big hands and steady voice. But now those hands lingered when he passed me in the hallway, and his eyes followed the sway of my hips in the thin shorts I wore around the house.
One night the power went out during a storm. We sat on the couch with candles, drinking the whiskey he kept for special occasions. He was fifty-two, broad-shouldered, still strong from years of construction work. I could smell his sweat and the faint cologne he wore. My tank top stuck to my skin from the heat. I knew he was looking at my nipples pressing against the fabric.
"You've grown up, baby," he said, voice low. "Too grown up for this house."
I turned toward him, knees touching his thigh. "Maybe I don't want to leave."
His hand landed on my knee and didn't move. Thick fingers, callused. He squeezed once, testing. I didn't pull away. The air changed. He leaned in and kissed me hard, tongue pushing past my lips like he owned my mouth. I moaned into it, already wet.
He pulled the tank top down, exposing my tits, and sucked one nipple roughly while his other hand shoved between my legs. "Fuck, you're soaked," he growled against my skin. "Been waiting for this, haven't you?"
I nodded, breathless. "Yes, Daddy."
That word made him snap. He yanked my shorts off, spread my thighs wide on the couch, and buried his face between them. His tongue was relentless, licking my clit in hard strokes, then fucking into my cunt like he was starving. I came fast, shaking, gripping his hair. He didn't stop. He kept licking until I was begging.
Then he stood, unzipped, and pulled out his cock. Thick, veined, already leaking. He stroked it once and told me to get on my knees. I did. He fed it into my mouth slowly at first, then deeper, until I was gagging and drooling down my chin. "That's it, take your father's cock," he muttered, fucking my throat.
When he pulled out, he flipped me onto the couch, ass up. He spat on my hole and pushed in without warning. The stretch burned, but I pushed back, taking every inch. He fucked me hard, one hand on my hip, the other yanking my hair. The couch creaked. Skin slapped. He called me his dirty girl, his secret slut, told me how long he'd wanted to fill me up.
He came deep inside me, groaning, flooding my cunt. Then he turned me over and made me lick him clean while his fingers worked his cum back into me. We didn't stop that night. He took me again in his bed, slower but just as deep, holding my wrists above my head while he pumped load after load into me.
After that, it became our routine. Mornings before work, quick and rough against the kitchen counter. Nights when he came home sweaty and hard, bending me over the arm of the sofa or pinning me to the shower wall. He taught me exactly how he liked it: deep, messy, no condoms, his cum dripping down my thighs for hours. I learned to beg for it, to call him Daddy while he stretched my ass for the first time, to ride him until my legs shook.
We never talked about stopping. It was too good, too raw. The risk only made it hotter. Every time he filled me, I knew I was his in a way no one else could touch. And every time I came on his cock, I knew I never wanted it to end.
