Total pages in book: 9
Estimated words: 7418 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 37(@200wpm)___ 30(@250wpm)___ 25(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 7418 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 37(@200wpm)___ 30(@250wpm)___ 25(@300wpm)
He left me there, kneeling on the gravel parking lot, dress around my waist, ass feeling hot and abused and so damn good.
“My pretty little slut. I love seeing you like this, Casey.”
I drove home with the taste of him coating my tongue.
Two nights later, he found me at the midnight showing of some eighties slasher flick. The theater was nearly empty. I sat alone in the back row, heart hammering, because I always knew when he was close now—like a sixth sense tuned only to the scent of danger and Daddy.
This role-playing game was a favorite of ours, one we’d been doing for years. To be forcibly taken by a stranger, unable to say no, feeling like a dirty whore because I loved it so much… It’s what got us both off.
He dropped into the seat beside me without a word, hand sliding up my thigh under the Daisy Dukes I’d worn just for him. No panties this time. Never again, if he had his way.
“Straddle me,” he growled into my ear.
I obeyed instantly, standing and pushing my shorts down until only one leg was out and the denim pooled around my ankle. I straddled him, knees on either side of his hips. The screen flashed behind me, and a woman screamed in faux fear while I sank down on his freed, bare cock inch by torturous inch.
I bit my lip until I tasted copper to keep from moaning out loud. He was so thick my pussy had to stretch, fluttering wildly around him, still tender from every previous claiming.
His hands clamped on my hips, forcing me down the last few inches until he was buried to the hilt and I was impaled, stuffed so full I couldn’t breathe. He kept one hand over my mouth the entire time, the other guiding my hips in a slow, grinding roll that dragged his cockhead over my G-spot.
I came three times like that, slow and silent and devastating, pussy clenching around my father so hard he had to muffle my sobs with his fingers shoved between my lips. When he finally let himself go, he yanked my hips flush to his and unloaded, pulse after thick pulse.
He lifted me off him like I weighed nothing, set me back in my seat with my shorts still around my ankle, his jizz making a mess of the seat. Then he stood, adjusted himself, and walked out without looking back.
Just like I was his slut. God, I was turned on again.
I stayed until the credits rolled, the smell of sex clinging to me like perfume.
I was addicted. Because I was his. Because there was no going back.
My father owned me, and I let him.
Because the masked stranger who started it all was the one man I was never supposed to want.
My father.
And God help me, I’d never wanted anyone more.
4
Weeks slipped by in a haze of stolen moments and careful secrecy. The city outside our windows carried on. Holidays blurred into the gray slog of winter, people rushing through their lives oblivious to the quiet, our taboo relationship happening behind the curtains of the place we shared.
At twenty-five, I worked at the diner on the weekends to make my “mad money”, as I called it. But my primary job was working remotely as a graphic designer, which gave me the flexibility to stay home more often than not.
Daddy worked as a senior architect at a firm downtown, but he always came home early if he could. We’d built a rhythm around our lives. In the mornings, we shared intimate conversation over coffee and lingering touches at the kitchen island. Our evenings were shared by curling up on the couch watching old movies. Nighttime the games escalated into something raw and consuming.
But tonight, there was no game. No mask on the nightstand. No anonymous note slipped into my purse.
The rain had turned to sleet, tapping against the windows like impatient fingers.
Daddy sat in the leather armchair as he flipped through an architecture magazine. I was on the rug at his feet, back against his legs, sketching idly on my tablet. It was domestic, almost ordinary… except for the way his free hand rested on my shoulder, thumb tracing slow circles through my sweater.
Occasionally, I’d lean my head against his knee and feel him still for a moment, like he was reminding himself I was really there.
When things were quite like this, I sometimes thought about my mother. She’d left when I was eight, walking out with nothing but a suitcase and a vague response that she had to “leave to find herself.”
And in the years following her departure, there’d been no calls, no cards, and no child support. She was just… gone.
Daddy had picked up every piece, becoming mother and father in one, never once complaining.