All Yours, Daddy: Short Steamy Stories

I’ve been fucking his son for eleven months and the only time I come hard is when I think about his dad.

Jake is sweet. He holds doors, texts good morning, tries to last longer than three minutes when he’s inside me. When he goes down on me he does that soft little licking thing like he’s afraid I’ll break. I make the right noises. I dig my nails into his shoulders. I tell him he’s amazing. Then I close my eyes and picture the man who raised him.

Richard. Forty-eight. Broad across the chest, thick in the arms, that low voice that sounds like it’s scraping gravel when he talks. He still picks up construction shifts sometimes, so his hands are rough and permanently marked. The first time he shook mine I felt the calluses drag across my palm and my cunt clenched so hard I almost made a sound right there in the driveway.

I started coming over more. Staying later. Making excuses to be in the kitchen when he was making coffee in the mornings after Jake and I had spent the night. He’d walk in wearing only sweatpants, hair messy from sleep, and I’d stand there in one of Jake’s old T-shirts with nothing underneath, pretending I needed water. He’d look at me over the rim of his mug. Not smiling. Just looking. Like he already knew exactly what was going on between my legs every time he was in the room.

I told myself it was nothing. Just a stupid crush. A dirty little fantasy I could keep locked up. But it got worse.

I’d be on my back under Jake, letting him pump away, and my mind would drift to Richard’s hands. How they’d feel gripping my hips hard enough to leave marks. How his voice would sound telling me to take it. I’d get wetter thinking about the dad than I ever did from the son’s actual cock.

Sometimes I’d come from the thought alone, and Jake would grin like he’d done something special. I’d smile back and feel sick with how easy it was to lie.

Last Thursday Jake passed out drunk on the couch after the game. Beer cans everywhere, remote still in his hand, mouth open. I was still wired, restless, skin too tight. I went to the kitchen for water and found Richard already there, standing at the sink in a black T-shirt and those same grey sweatpants. He filled a glass, drank half of it, then set it down and leaned against the counter across from me.

He didn’t waste time.

“You don’t come with him, do you.”

It wasn’t a question. My face went hot. I opened my mouth to lie and he shook his head once, slow.

“Don’t. I’ve heard you. Those little polite moans you give him. Then I hear the shower running after and I know what you’re doing in there. Touching yourself. Thinking about something else.”

I should have stood up and left. Instead I sat there on the stool with my thighs pressed together, already soaking through the thin cotton of my sleep shorts. The house was quiet except for Jake’s snoring from the living room.

Richard walked around the island. Stopped right beside my stool. Close enough that I could smell the soap on his skin and the faint trace of whatever he’d put on that morning. His body heat hit me like a wall.

“Stand up.”

I stood. My legs felt unsteady. He reached down and cupped me through the shorts. Just rested his big hand there, feeling how wet I’d already gotten. His thumb pressed lightly against my clit through the fabric and my hips jerked without permission.

“There it is,” he murmured. “That’s the real sound. Not the fake shit you give my son.”

He rubbed slow circles. I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood. Jake was twenty feet away, dead to the world.

Richard slid his hand inside the waistband. Two thick fingers found my slit and pushed in without warning. I was so wet they went easy, no resistance. He curled them and pressed against that spot Jake could never find no matter how many times I tried to guide him, and a broken little noise slipped out of me before I could stop it.

“Quiet,” he said. “Or I’ll stop and leave you like this.”

I nodded, eyes squeezed shut. He finger-fucked me right there in the kitchen, slow and deep at first, the wet sounds filthy in the quiet house. Every time I started to get loud he slowed down until I was shaking and biting the inside of my cheek raw. His other hand came up under the T-shirt and pinched my nipple hard enough to hurt. The pain shot straight down to where his fingers were working me open.

“You’ve been thinking about this,” he said against my ear, voice low and steady. “Walking around my house in these little shorts, letting my son fuck you while you imagine it’s me stretching this cunt. Haven’t you.”

I nodded again. Couldn’t speak. My hips were moving on their own, chasing his hand.

“Say it.”

“Yes.”

“Yes what.”

“Yes… I’ve been thinking about you. About your hands. Your cock. Everything.”

He added a third finger and stretched me. My knees almost gave out. He held me up with the hand on my tit and kept working those fingers in and out, faster now, the heel of his palm grinding against my clit with every thrust. The wet noise was obscene. I could hear how soaked I was, how easy I was taking him.

“You’re gonna come on my hand while my boy’s sleeping fifteen feet away,” he said. “And you’re gonna look me in the eye when you do it. No closing them. No pretending it’s anyone else.”

I forced my eyes open. His face was right there, calm, almost cold, like this was nothing special to him. Like he’d done this a hundred times. That somehow made it worse. Or better. I don’t know. The shame hit me hard; Jake’s dad, fingers deep in me, making me drip down his wrist—and it only pushed me closer.

I came hard, gushing around his fingers, thighs shaking, a high broken sound trapped in my throat. He didn’t stop. He kept fingering me through it, relentless, until I was twitching and trying to pull away, oversensitive, almost sobbing from how much it was. Only then did he pull his hand out.

He held his shiny fingers up between us. Thick, coated, dripping.

“Clean them.”

I opened my mouth. He pushed them in and I sucked, tasting myself, salt and musk and how desperate I’d been. He watched me do it like he was deciding something important. When he pulled them free he wiped the last of it across my bottom lip, then down my chin.

“Next time I’m not stopping at fingers,” he said. “You’re going to ask me for it. Properly. On your knees if I want. And you’re going to call me what I tell you to call me.”

He walked out of the kitchen without another word. Just left me standing there with my shorts shoved down around my thighs, cunt still pulsing and open, the taste of myself thick on my tongue. I listened to Jake snore on the couch and felt something cold and excited settle in my stomach.

I pulled my shorts up with shaking hands. Went upstairs to the bathroom Jake and I shared and locked the door. Sat on the closed toilet lid, legs spread, and touched myself again—three fingers this time, shoving them in the way Richard had, imagining they were thicker, rougher, his.

I came a second time with my other hand clamped over my mouth so the sound wouldn’t carry down the hall. Then a third, weaker, just from replaying the way he’d looked at me while I cleaned his fingers.

When I finally crawled into bed beside Jake he mumbled something half-asleep and threw a heavy arm over my waist. I lay there staring at the ceiling in the dark, still wet, still open, the word “next time” looping in my head like a threat and a promise at the same time.