Reflections of Desire
A Daddy Daughter Tale
R.R. Ryan
© Copyright 2025 by R.R. Ryan
NOTE: This work contains material not suitable for anyone under eighteen (18) or those of a delicate nature. This is a story and contains descriptive scenes of a graphic, sexual nature. This is a work of fiction. Unless otherwise indicated, all the names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents in this book are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Reflections of Desire
Right this moment
This is ten years after Mother left us for another guy, ten years without her. For all those years, it’s Daddy and me. Sure, he’s dated, but nothing ever works. Trust, once broken, eludes some people.
However, we have trust in each other. So, why shouldn’t we have more?
The night comes, I stare at myself in the closet mirror. Sucking in my stomach until the lower ribs show. Hunching my shoulders, I angle my chin to sharpen my jawline, and my hair spreads across, forming a shroud over my collarbones. The body stares back, vacant-eyed, waiting for its next set of instructions.
Sometimes, in the right light, I look older than eighteen. Tonight, with the makeup scrubbed from my face and my shirt unbuttoned halfway, I’m a girl who wants Daddy to catch her.
The decision took hold hours ago. Had the willy-nilly all day, I haven’t eaten since lunch, and now my stomach gnaws at itself. Hunger sharpens things, but I ignore it. The fact is, I need to feel every atom of the moment.
The bedroom’s a mausoleum.
Piles of sweatshirts and notebooks hem me in from all sides, blocking the air vent so the whole place smells of lint and artificial vanilla. The string lights are dead in one corner, leaving a tumor of darkness on the far wall. A graveyard of bobby pins and hairbands covers the top of my dresser.
Quickly, I brush aside the debris and start with my shirt. White, thin, almost transparent under the lamplight. Off it goes, buttons snapping, the fabric cold where it brushes my skin. Stepping on them as I wiggle out of my jeans, I let the slacks drop to the carpet as well.
The pants fight me. Strange how some simple things aren’t simple a’tall, I have to bend, squat, peel them from my thighs with both hands. The effort makes me pant, raises goosebumps along my bare arms. For a second, I catch the outline of my body in the mirror. Small breasts, pale and tipped with pink, ribcage defined but not sharp, hipbones round and ready to be cradled.
In quiet moments, I watch my legs tense as I stand. The reflection seems alien, not ugly, extra, or unfamiliar, a borrowed, anatomically correct mannequin.
Shedding the rest.
The bralette’s gray and crusted with months of sweat. The panties are cotton with little strawberries across the back, cutesy and juvenile. They disgust me, so I throw both into the laundry basket. Pulling the pile of new things from the closet shelf.
White lace, still crisp with the price tags. The thong is a scrap, more suggestion than substance. Teasing myself, I hold it up to the light, see the closet through it. Then, I tug it up my legs and feel the fabric slip between the cheeks, the faintest tickle where it rides against me.
The matching bra’s no better, an A-cup with pointless underwire and straps thin as dental floss. With arms contorted behind me, I struggle with the clasp. Fighting the urge to give up. When it finally clicks, I stand taller. With trembling hands, I turn, side to side, watching the way the lace hugs and exposes me.
Without a doubt, I crave to become someone he’d desire.
When I walk, my feet leave damp prints as I cross to the bathroom. Gazing at myself again. Without makeup, I’m all sharp corners, cheekbones, a thin mouth, gigantic eyes framed by wet lashes. My hair sticks to my forehead in ugly streaks. Twisting the faucet, I let the water run until the pipes clatter and the heat floods the air. Before getting in, I strip again, tossing the lingerie onto the edge of the sink. The mirror fogs over before I even step into the shower.
The water burns.
Forcing myself to stand under it, to let the heat sear my shoulders and down my spine. Washing myself with the expensive stuff from the locked drawer. A lily-scented body wash and shampoo that smells summerish. Crap on a stick, I use too much. Coating my skin and scalp until I’m slick all over, fingers slipping as I scrub.
Picturing his hands doing this, slow, methodical, tracing the arch of my back, the dip above my ass. When I rinse off, I stand shivering as the water slides from my body. Once I’ve finished, I yank open the shower door and step onto the cold tile.
Already used, rough and scratchy, I dry off with a towel from the bottom of the stack. Which leaves my skin pink and raw in places. Wiping the fog from the mirror, I peer at the new version of myself: dripping, nipples hard from the cold, lips parted. With teeth bared, I grin. An animal in her natural habitat.
The razor comes out next.
Propping my foot on the toilet lid, I drag the blade up my shin, careful not to nick the bone. Watching the foam collect hair and dead skin in its wake, I shave slow and cautiously. No nicks, no cuts. Yearning to be perfect, to be soft. Checking for missed patches, I run my palm over my leg and do it again.
Then I switch legs, do my arms, and the strip above my pussy. The heat flushes my face, not from the effort, but from the thought of him seeing it, touching it. Thinking about his tongue down there, plunging into me. Fucking intense, Daddy’s mouth on my twat. Studying the hair swirling down the drain as I rinse the razor in the sink.
Back in my room, I towel off a second time. Yanking on the lace thong, the bra, fumbling with the straps until the cups sit right. The panties bite into my hips, leaving faint lines in the skin. Arching my back, I turn in front of the mirror and push out my chest. Strange, I appear fragile but dangerous.
Perfume comes last. Pulling the trigger, I spritz my wrist, rub them together, and then, behind my ears. Lifting the hem of the thong, I spray once down there. The mist settles cool and burns. A pleasurable pain, I savor it. Rolling my shoulders, I let my hair fall forward, staring myself down.
This is the real me. No more hiding, no more playing it safe. When I run my fingers over my stomach, a tremor forms in my hands. Yes, I’m scared, but the good kind. The kind that makes your heart kick harder, that makes you want to leap off a building to see if you can fly.
Tossing my head this way and that, I shake out my hair. Pulling on a threadbare hoodie, his, faded and stretched, the cuffs chewed up with teeth marks. With nothing else underneath, I zip it halfway.
As the old house holds its breath, I check the clock. 11:44. More than likely, Daddy will be asleep soon, the house settling around his breathing. The truth is, I need him to see me as I am.
Because I want him to want me. The song plays in my head.
I touch the tip of my tongue to my wrist, taste the perfume, and shiver. Holy Jesus on a dashboard, I can’t wait any longer.
The next time I see myself in the mirror, it’ll be as someone new. Someone who takes what she requires.
The house is quiet for once. No sports droning from the living room, no dishwasher cycling, no dogs. Even the crickets outside shut up. In the quietness, I move through the hallway with bare feet, toes sinking into the carpet, knees trembling with every step. Each door I pass radiates a unique flavor of ghost.
The laundry closet, the guest bath, and the bedroom he pretends is an office but never uses. Careful and quiet, I hold my breath as I reach his door. Afraid the noise will tip him off before I’m ready.
When I test the knob, it turns, easy as butter.
Slipping inside, letting the door settle back without a click. The darkness is absolute, smothering. All my life, his bedroom never had a nightlight, claiming they’re for babies. For a few seconds, I let my eyes adjust. At first, shapes form. The dresser, the chair, the enormous square of his bed in the center of the far wall. Trying to steady myself, I draw in a slow lungful. The air here is dense with him.
Not cologne—he never wears it. But the clean, nearly medicinal smell of his soap, the faint tang of old gym shirts folded on the dresser, the burn of dryer sheets from the bedspread. Somehow, I can taste it. When my heart thuds so loud, I’m sure it’ll wake the neighbors.
As I shuffle to the bed, I pause when the wood frame creaks under my weight. In that instant, my heart stops, restarts, and kicks even harder. Intently, I listen. Nothing but the hum of the AC vent. Good, he’s not here yet. So, I slip under the covers, drag the duvet up to my neck, and ball myself into the tightest curl possible.
The sheets are cold and crisp with that straight-from-the-laundry tautness. When my skin prickles, I tug the hoodie lower on my hips. Feeling the scratch of lace underneath, I slide my palms along my thighs until I reach the seam of the thong. The secret burns. Savoring it, I squeeze my knees together.
Staring at the wall, I wait for the inevitable. My breath fogs the pillow. Time slows to a syrupy crawl. Testing my resolve, I run my tongue along my teeth, chew the inside of my cheek, bite down until I taste copper. For a few moments, I imagine how this will look in the morning, me in his bed. Bare legs tangled in the sheets, nothing underneath, hair wild on the pillow. Oh yes, I’ll be the girl who gets what she wants, no matter what it takes.
The doorknob rattles, I freeze. With the crack of hallway light behind Dad, outlining his silhouette, he steps inside. Tall, broad, head dropping down, Atlas with the world on his neck. For several seconds, I don’t move, don’t even breathe.
Soaking in the details, I watch him from the corner of my eye. The stained work jeans, the faded t-shirt with the logo peeled off, the battered wrists, and giant, scarred hands. He smells of cut grass and diesel, plus that clean undercurrent from the bathroom.
He stands for a minute or less, breathing.
Then the door closes, snuffing out all the light. In the stillness, I hear him toe off his boots, the thud as they drop to the floor. The rustle of his shirt as he peels it off. Squeezing my eyes shut, waiting for the bed to sag with his weight. For someone so big, he moves quietly, with practiced silence.
This comes from years of sneaking up on kids, animals, or burglars. The mattress dips. There’s a faint static charge in the air when he lifts the edge of the blanket.
His body radiates heat before it even touches me.
He says nothing, slides in behind me, settling a foot away, the covers a mountain range between us. Keeping my face turned to the wall, breathing steadily, and make believe I’m already asleep. In a long, shuddery thing, he exhales and rolls over to his back. We lie about that, both of us holding our own sides of the bed, the silence pulsing between us.
Minutes pass as I imagine a clock somewhere, ticking. Inching closer to the boundary line between us, I flex my toes, testing the limits. The sheet pulls tight against my hips, and the air inside the hoodie grows clammy. Desire swells, and I want to reach over, grab his hand, and yank it onto my body. Instead, I settle for curling tighter, letting my back arch toward him, closing the distance by degrees.
He shifts, possibly sensing my movement, but doesn’t react. He’s tired, I know. He’s always tired. In the darkness, I count the rise and fall of his chest, the shallow rhythm of his breathing. He mutters something—a sigh, a fragment of a word—but nothing I can make out. In my mind’s eye, I picture his face in the darkness. The stubble, the lines from sun and work, the tired but not defeated set of his mouth. Wanting to touch it, to learn every inch.
The sheets slide as I scoot another inch. My ass bumps the warm spot where his thigh meets the mattress. And in this moment, I brace for him to move. To pull away, but he stays put. Again, I imagine the way he’d react if he knew what I was wearing, what I planned. The thought makes my skin sing.
So, I let my body melt into the space between us. His breath ruffles the hair at the base of my neck. We don’t touch, not yet, but the enormity of him pulls me closer.
The world shrinks to the four corners of this bed, to the two bodies orbiting each other in the dark. One at a time, I count the heartbeats. Waiting for Dad to notice me, to really see me.
But for now, it’s wonderful to be this close.
The not-touching lasts exactly seven minutes. Matching each inhale to the digital clock’s green numbers, I count every second. Aching to reach across the void and drag him to me, but that’s not how this works. No, sirree, I need him to come to me, for my gravity to pull him to me, and for him to surrender.
In the eighth minute, my throat closes up. From nowhere, I hear myself making a tiny, wounded animal noise. Softening my voice, I ride it, making it small and breakable.
“Daddy?” I say, whisper-soft. A stone in the well of silence.
He grunts, awakens at my voice. “Yeah, bug?”
Letting the tension build, I hesitate. My heart tap-dances. “Can you… Can you hold me?” The words tremble. “I can’t sleep.”
Another grunt, lower, tired. And Dad shifts onto his side, closes the gap, and wraps one heavy arm around my waist. The heat is shocking. His hand lands below my ribs, palm wide, thumb grazing bare skin. He pulls me into his chest, and I feel the deep vibration of his sigh as it rumbles through both our bodies. For a second, I forget to breathe.
He’s done this before—held me when the nightmares get bad, when I shake or cry or burrow under the blankets. It’s supposed to be innocent. But nothing about this is innocent, and I arch my back. Pressing the small of my spine into his body. His chest hair scratches my neck. Letting my head rest on his bicep, my cheek presses into the thick muscle.
Sensing the exact moment, he notices something’s off. When his hand slides lower, meaning to settle on my hip, it stops dead. The cotton of the hoodie ends, and nothing meets his fingers except warm, soft skin. And I feel the rough callus on his thumb trace the curve of my waist, hesitate, freeze.
But I don’t move, don’t flinch.
At first, he tries to ignore it, but he can’t. His hand tests the spot again, slow, deliberate. He must feel the strap of the thong. A thin, delicate thing, nothing close to the tomboy underwear I usually wear. As if he’s not sure what he’s touching, he flexes his fingers. The temperature in the room spikes.
For an entire minute, Daddy’s still. Then, without warning, he lifts the edge of the blanket, guarded not to move me too much. I sense his head tilt down, the breath on my shoulder, the eyes adjusting to the shadow and the glow from the window. He looks to see the lace, the exposed skin, the way the thong rides up between my cheeks. He lets the blanket drop, and I swear I hear his teeth as he grinds them.
The silence after is radioactive. With every nerve waiting for a reaction, my body hums. Drumming against my back, Daddy’s heart pounds through his chest. Then I feel something else. Hard and thick, his cock strains through the thin material of his boxers. When he tries to shift away, the friction makes it worse.
Then, I let out a tiny, involuntary giggle—a hiccup of pure, giddy triumph. The sound cracks the spell.
With his voice low and strangled, “Anne,” and he says my name as a prayer.
But I don’t answer. Letting the space fill up with my breathing, in stages, and even, as if nothing changes. But everything has.
The air turns molten.
At this moment, I taste metal, ozone, sweat. Daddy’s hand, the same one that tucked me in for a decade, moves again. It slides up my stomach, deliberate, each fingertip dragging a line of fire along my ribs.
The tension builds, and my nipples pebble instantly. The thin lace does nothing to blunt the sensation. When Dad hits the underside of my breast, he hesitates, thumb hovering shy of the curve. He’s testing himself, or perhaps me. The breath from his nose heats my scalp.
His other hand clamps my waist, fingers digging into the meat of my hip. Not so hard to hurt, but enough to make sure I can’t wriggle away. Anyway, I don’t. Shifting so my ass nestles perfectly against the length of his cock, I arch my back. He’s rigid, straining, a steel rod trapped in cloth. He groans, the sound thick and ruined, and his thumb finally gives in—he traces the edge of my nipple, rolling it lightly through the lace.
I whimper to let him know I’m paying attention. He takes the cue and grows bolder, sliding his palm over the cup, squeezing gently, harder. My breath gets choppy. I reach down and grab his wrist, not to stop him, but to hold him there, to anchor myself. He jerks in surprise, but doesn’t pull away.
Slowly at first, his hips move. The head of his cock grinds into my ass through the satin of his boxers and my thong, and he presses forward. The friction is electric. Rolling my hips, I push back, matching his rhythm. The sound of skin on fabric fills the room, obscene and hungry. My thighs quiver. I want to say something—dirty, brave—but the words won’t come. All I can do is breathe.
He buries his face in my hair, inhaling as if he wants to memorize me from the inside out. “Fuck,” he mutters, so soft I barely catch it. The word vibrates against my neck.
I tip my head back until it rests on his shoulder. I let my mouth fall open, tongue peeking out, inviting. He nips at my earlobe, kisses the spot behind my ear. A place so sensitive that I jerk involuntarily. His hand abandons my breast and travels down, tracing the contour of my waist, lower, over the front of my panties. He doesn’t slip inside—yet—but cups me through the fabric, pressing to feel the damp heat seeping through.
My brain glitches. I’ve imagined this a thousand times, but the real thing is messier, hotter, more dangerous. My clit throbs. I spread my legs a little, giving him more access, and he takes the invitation with a shudder.
The movement grows frantic, desperate. Dad’s hips piston against me, faster now. The base of his cock slams against my ass, time and again. I grind back, hard, letting him know I can take it. My hands scrabble for purchase on the sheets. I can’t stop smiling, can’t stop gasping.
I’m wet—soaked, actually. The thong’s useless now, more decoration than barrier. I rub myself against Daddy’s hand, letting him feel exactly what he’s done to me. I want him to know. I want him to lose control.
He does. He lets out a guttural noise, a growl, followed by a sob. He’s not even pretending anymore. His cock pulses, the tip leaking through his boxers, the fabric growing damp where it meets my skin. He grabs my chin, tilts my head up, and kisses me—on the cheek, the corner of my mouth, finally on the lips.
It’s clumsy, all teeth and breath and tongues colliding. He’s never kissed me like this, not even once, but he learns fast. I bite his lower lip, and he grunts, goes in for more. The rhythm of our hips never falters.
We’re fucking, and not fucking, and it doesn’t matter. I want to burn the moment into my body forever. I want to see how far Daddy’ll go before he breaks.
We move faster, hands and mouths everywhere. He’s on the edge. I’m already gone, the orgasm building at the base of my spine, ready to detonate. I dig my nails into his arm, marking him.
“Please,” I whisper. “Don’t stop.”
He doesn’t. He speeds up, chasing the finish line, and I let myself ride the wave with him.
We crash together, bodies locked, sweat and spit and come mingling in the space between us. I convulse against Dad, the pleasure so sharp it’s almost pain. He holds me tight, breathing my name into my neck repeatedly.
We slow down, stop, and are tangled up and trembling. The world settles around us, softer, brighter.
He doesn’t say anything. He buries his face in my hair and holds on, and he’ll drown if he lets go.
And I let him.
Afterward, the room pulses with aftershocks. I lie there, cradled against his chest, sweat beading between my breasts. The hoodie is a swamp; I yank it off and toss it to the floor, savoring the feel of the air on my damp skin. I can’t tell if his heart or mine beats faster, but both thump in wild, irregular bursts.
He still holds me, but his grip has loosened. I sense the confusion in the way he strokes my side—gentle, but too light, as if he’s afraid to bruise a dream. His breath cools the sweat on my shoulder.
I want more.
I twist in his arms, rolling onto my stomach. For a second, he tenses, he may think I’m about to bolt. Instead, I swing a leg over his hips, straddle him, and plant my palms on either side of his head. The blanket slips off my back, pooling around my knees. I look down, letting the hair curtain my face.
His eyes are wide, stunned, so green it hurts to look at them. His mouth opens, closes. I don’t give him a chance to speak.
I lower myself, not to his lips, but to his throat. I find the pulse with my tongue and trace it up, tasting salt and the ghost of aftershave. His skin is rough, the stubble scratching my chin. I kiss his cheek, bite the angle below his ear. He groans louder this time, hands coming up to clutch at my hips. He tries to hold me still, but I’m a live wire. I buck, grind, and tease. He gives up, lets his fingers roam—first up my spine, around to cup my ass, the thong already wedged deep.
I work my way down his chest, planting kisses, dragging my teeth. I flick my tongue over his nipples and feel him shudder. I pause at the waistband of his boxers, nuzzle it, glance up. He’s watching me, breathing ragged, hands fisted so tight the knuckles go white.
I want to ruin him.
But first, I want to own him.
I slide up, align my face with his, and finally, finally, kiss him on the mouth.
It’s not gentle. It’s not pretty. Our teeth clash. Our noses bump. I taste the sharpness of sweat, the raw edge of whiskey he must have had before bed. I push my tongue in, force it, and he meets me with equal hunger. His hands tangle in my hair, yanking, and my scalp stings.
I moan into his mouth. He answers with a growl, and the sound vibrates through his whole body. We kiss, two drowning people, desperate and greedy, sucking air from each other’s lungs. I lose myself in the rhythm, forget who I am, who he is, what time, day, or year it is. There’s only this—mouth, tongue, teeth, hands.
He flips us, sudden and smooth, pinning me to the mattress. The force knocks the air from my chest. He hovers above, eyes blazing, lips parted and wet.
We stare at each other, neither batting an eye.
I drag him down for another kiss. He crushes me to the bed, grinding his hips between my legs, the weight of his body perfect and absolute.
We keep kissing, harder, deeper, until our mouths are numb and our lips are slick with spit.
I never want to stop.
We make out, two desperate to mate animals, until my jaw aches, my lips numb and bruised. I don’t care. I want to swallow him whole, crawl inside him, and live there.
He pulls back first, panting, pupils blown. His chest rises and falls, every muscle taut, waiting for the next disaster. I kiss his chin, the corner of his mouth, the hollow at the base of his throat. I taste salt, skin, a hint of something sharp and electric. He groans, more confused than ever, and I work my way south.
His hands hover at my shoulders, unsure whether to push me away or pull me closer. I make the choice for him, nipping his collarbone, tracing my tongue down his chest. The hair there is soft, a little curly, and it tickles my nose. I giggle, mainly from the rush of power—he’s helpless, totally at my mercy. I graze his nipple with my teeth, and he shivers, lets out a tiny gasp.
Lower, lower. I pause at the waistband of Daddy’s boxers, run my nose along the elastic, and bite down gently. His hips jump. I grin, hook my fingers under the waistband, and tug.
He makes a slight, panicked noise. “Anne—” The rest of the word dies in his throat as I free his cock. It springs up, thick and flushed and leaking at the tip. Bigger than I expected, almost too much, but I want it. I want to make him lose it completely.
I wrap my hand around the base and lick a stripe from root to head, tasting pre-cum, the faint bitterness of skin. I keep my eyes locked on his, daring him to look away. He doesn’t. He can’t.
I swirl my tongue around the tip, slide my mouth over it, the head at first, sucking gently. He hisses. His hand lands in my hair, fingers threading through, not forcing, guiding, as if to anchor himself. I go lower, taking more of him, feeling the stretch in my mouth and loving it.
I bob up and down, gradually at first, teasing. My free hand runs up Dad’s thigh, over the sharp muscle, the veins pulse under my palm. He moans, tries to say my name, chokes on it. I speed up, hollowing my cheeks, using my tongue to milk every inch. I love the way he falls apart.
His grip in my hair tightens, but never yanks. He’s shaking, the muscles in his stomach clenching with every pass of my mouth. I glance up again—his eyes roll back, snap down to mine. He looks destroyed, but happy.
I hum around his cock, feeling the vibration all the way to his spine. He jerks, sobs. “Shit. Baby. You—fuck—” Words melt. I smile, mouth full.
I let go with a pop, lick the underside, longingly. I suck Daddy back in, deeper this time, until he brushes the back of my throat. I gag a little, but recover quick, swallowing around him. He loses it, gasping, saying my name several times in a lusty hushed whisper.
His other hand joins the first, cradling my face. I can’t see him, but I can feel the desperation in every stroke. I want him to come. I want him to know I can make him do anything.
I work him faster, sloppier, spit dripping down my chin, coating his shaft. He’s close, I can tell by the way he stiffens, how his balls draw up tight, how his legs tremble under my hands.
“Anne—” he warns, voice barely human. “I’m gonna—”
I don’t stop. I look up, eyes wide and innocent, the best good-girl act I’ve ever pulled.
He groans, hips thrusting up, and he explodes in my mouth. Hot, salty, bitter—he comes so hard I almost choke. I swallow, keeping my eyes on him, letting him see every second.
He collapses back, spent and boneless. I let him slip free, crawl up, and nestle in the crook of his arm. He stares at the ceiling, stunned. I wipe my lips and giggle.
He looks at me, really looks, and for the first time, he doesn’t seem afraid.
He seems in love.
We lie together, tangled in each other’s sweat and spit, too exhausted to speak. The silence stretches, not awkward but thick with everything we can’t say. I trace patterns on his chest, nails lightly scratching the hair. He closes his eyes, lets out a sigh that shakes the bed.
But I’m still on fire.
I want him, again and again, until every cell in my body remembers tonight forever.
I push myself up, kneel astride his hips, and stare down at him. Surprise, his eyes flicker open, and lust peeks out in the green. Glistening and flushed, his cock is already hard again, lying heavy against his thigh. I drag my fingernails up his ribs, grab his cock, squeeze, and press it against the soaked lace of my thong.
With some pain and more pleasure, Daddy sucks in a breath. “You’re insatiable,” he says, voice raw.
“Only for you,” I say and mean it. I rub the tip up and down my slit. Letting it catch on the lace, and he grinds it against my clit. The aftershocks making my legs quiver, my whole body shudders. I want to tease him, but I enjoy it too much. I hook a finger under the waistband and pull the thong aside.
With his hands shooting up to grip my hips, he moans louder now. He watches, wide-eyed, as I line him up and sink down. He slides in slow, thick and stretching, filling me until it hurts and past that, until I can’t tell where I end and he begins.
I rock my hips, slow at first, savoring the friction, the way his cock drags along every nerve ending. Testing his self-control, I clench around him. He grits his teeth, trying to hold still, but his fingers dig into my flesh. And I love how he can’t resist me.
With my hair brushing his face, I lean forward, and kiss him—messy, hungry, spit-slick. Our tongues fight for dominance, but I win. I always do. Breaking the kiss.
“Be a good girl. Ride it better than anyone has.”
Breathless, I laugh.
“You want a show?” I ask and raise myself until only the head stays inside, slam down, hard. He jerks, groans, loses his rhythm. I do it again, and again, faster each time, until the room echoes with the slap of flesh and the high, ragged sounds spilling from my mouth.
The wetness is insane. I can hear it, feel it, see it when I glance down and watch his cock disappear into me, thrust after thrust. My clit grinds against his pelvis, sending sparks up my spine. I’m close already, too close.
“Don’t you dare cum before me,” I say, panting, grinding down hard. “I want us to do it together.”
With his face twisted with effort, he nods.
“Fuck, Anne…gonna…can’t…”
“Not yet,” I order. Leaving angry red streaks, I claw at Daddy’s chest. “Hold it.”
Chasing my finish, I slam down harder. The pressure builds, white-hot and all-consuming. Milking every inch, I clench around him, and he bucks up, matching my thrusts. We’re feral, fucking as if we want to break each other.
The orgasm hits out of nowhere. A massive, violent, fiery one, a seizure of all of me. As my body locks up and my vision goes white, I scream, actually shriek. I feel Dad explode inside me, cock throbbing, heat flooding my core. The force of it makes me squirt, fluid gushing out around him, soaking his cock, his balls, the sheets.
Ruined and breathless, we collapse together, bodies glued by sweat and come.
Limp and shivering, I lie there, utterly spent. Pulling me down until my head rests on his chest, he wraps his arms around me. He strokes my back, soothing, gentle, the way he used to when I was little.
“You broke me.” And I laugh, delicious.
“Worth it,” he says and smiles, eyes closed, voice soft.
We drift in and out of sleep, still tangled, still joined. I know the world outside will come crashing in tomorrow, with its rules, labels, and shame.
But tonight, in this bed, we’re the only two people alive.
And that’s enough.
After, we lie there. My head on his chest, ear pressed to the wild, erratic beat of his heart. He strokes my hair, absentmindedly, petting a kitty cat. Now and then, he kisses the top of my head. We don’t talk. We don’t need to.
The sheets are a crime scene. They are damp with sweat, cum, and whatever else I leaked out when I lost it. The room smells of sex. The smell is sharp and bright. All I want is to marinate in it, never wash the scent away.
Tracing every vertebra, he runs a hand down my back, squeezes my ass, because he can. I giggle, rolling closer, hooking a leg over his. The cum and sweat mingle, his mine, ours, my thigh is sticky. But fuck it, I don’t care. I want to mold myself to him, to be as close as possible.
For the first time in months, maybe years, I feel safe.
For a bit, Daddy holds me like I’m breakable, which is hilarious. After all, I proved tonight that I’m the one who breaks things. The rules, boundaries, people, and him. And decide I should keep him broken, possess him.
He kisses my temple, sighs into my hair, and finally speaks. “Little girl, you’re trouble.”
I smirk against his chest. “Yeah, Daddy, but you love trouble.”
He grunts, but I feel him smile. His hand drifts up and down my spine, soothing me, lulling me toward sleep.
Every second, with each forbidden touch, I replay the night in my head. I taste him on my tongue. Feel him pulsing inside me, remember the way his voice broke when he came. I want to etch it into my bones.
Breathing in the comfort of his skin, I close my eyes. I know tomorrow will be complicated, messy. But tonight isn’t about guilt. It’s about winning. And I have. Dreaming of what comes next, I drift off with a smile.
