I never planned to tell anyone how it started with my daughter, but the nights when she comes to me now make it impossible to stay silent. I'm forty-eight, she's twenty-two, and every time she whispers "Daddy" against my ear I feel the same jolt I did the first time she climbed into my lap after her mother left.
It began on a rainy Tuesday when she came home from college soaked and shaking. I wrapped her in a towel and she didn't let go. Her body pressed against mine, soft and warm, and she said she missed how safe I used to make her feel. I stroked her wet hair and told her she was still my girl. She kissed my neck instead of my cheek. The kiss turned open-mouthed, hungry. My hands stayed on her back until she took one and slid it under her shirt onto her breast. After that there was no going back.
She tastes like salt and something sweeter when I bury my face between her legs. She keeps her thighs tight around my head and moans my name like a prayer. I lick her slowly at first, then faster when she starts grinding against my tongue. She comes hard, thighs trembling, and I don't stop until she's pulling my hair and begging. Then she pushes me onto my back and takes my cock in her mouth like she's been waiting all semester. She looks up at me with those wide eyes while she swallows me deep, saliva running down her chin, and I have to fight not to finish right there.
When I finally slide inside her it's always the same electric shock. She's tight and hot and so wet it makes filthy sounds every time I thrust. She wraps her legs around my waist and whispers the dirtiest things: how she thinks about me when she's in class, how she touches herself in the dorm shower imagining it's my hand. I fuck her harder then, pinning her wrists above her head, and she comes again with a broken cry that makes my balls tighten.
We don't do it every night. Sometimes she studies at the kitchen table and I cook for her like nothing has changed. But when the house is quiet and she appears in my doorway in nothing but an old T-shirt of mine, I know what's coming. She climbs on top, sinks down onto me, and rides until her legs shake. I hold her hips and watch her tits bounce, watch her bite her lip to stay quiet even though we're alone. When she leans down to kiss me I taste myself on her tongue and it only makes me harder.
Afterward she stays curled against my chest, my come leaking out of her onto the sheets. She tells me she doesn't want anyone else, that no boy her age knows how to touch her the way I do. I stroke her back and tell her she's perfect, that I'll always take care of her. She falls asleep that way, and I lie awake listening to her breathe, already wondering how soon I can have her again.
The guilt is still there some mornings, but it fades the second she smiles at me across the breakfast table and I remember the way she begged for it the night before. She chose this. We both did. And every time she calls me Daddy while I'm deep inside her, the word stops feeling like a title and starts feeling like the only name that matters.
