Daddy Little Girl

Laura:

I’ve always been good at pretending. At school, I’m the quiet girl who gets straight A’s and smiles politely when teachers praise me. At home, I’m Daddy’s little helper—setting the table, folding laundry, saying “yes, sir” when he asks me to do something. But inside my head? It’s a different story. Lately, the thoughts won’t leave me alone.

It started small. A glance that lingered too long when he came in from the garage, shirt clinging to his chest from sweat, the way his forearms flexed as he lifted a box. He’s not my real dad—he married Mom three years ago—but he’s been the only father figure I’ve known since I was fourteen. Tall, broad-shouldered, salt-and-pepper hair, that deep voice that makes everything sound like an order even when it’s just “pass the salt.” I used to think it was harmless admiration. Now I know it’s something else.

Something that makes me ache between my legs when I’m alone.

This afternoon, the house is empty except for the hum of the air conditioner. Mom’s at her book club until late, and Daddy—Mark, I should call him Mark, but the word “Daddy” slips into my fantasies too easily—left for the hardware store an hour ago. I told him I’d stay home and finish some chores. Truth is, I needed the quiet. Needed space to let my mind wander where it shouldn’t.

I’m in my room, door cracked just enough that I can hear if anyone comes home early. Sunlight slants through the blinds, striping my bed in gold. I’m wearing the little white cotton shorts that ride up my thighs and a thin tank top, no bra. The fabric clings to my skin from the heat. I lie back on the comforter, legs slightly parted, and let my hand drift down.

At first it’s innocent. Just tracing circles over my stomach, feeling the soft rise and fall of my breathing. But my mind wanders to him again. To the way he looks at me sometimes—like he’s trying not to look. Last night at dinner, his eyes flicked to my chest when I leaned over to grab the butter. I pretended not to notice, but my nipples hardened under my shirt anyway. Now, thinking about it, they pebble again.

I slip my hand under the waistband of my shorts. No panties today—another secret I keep from everyone. My fingers find the slick heat already waiting. I’m wet just from the thought of him. I bite my lip and circle my clit slowly, imagining his big hand instead. Rough from work, calloused fingertips pressing exactly where I need it. “That’s my good girl,” he’d murmur in that low rumble. “Let Daddy make it feel better.”

A soft whimper escapes me. I spread my legs wider, dipping two fingers inside, feeling how tight and needy I am. My hips rock up instinctively, chasing the pressure. I picture him walking in right now—catching me like this, legs open, fingers buried in my pussy, moaning his name under my breath. Would he be shocked? Angry? Or would his eyes darken the way they do when he’s frustrated, and he’d step closer instead of turning away?

The fantasy shifts. He doesn’t leave. He closes the door behind him, locks it. “Laura,” he says, voice thick. “What are you doing, baby girl?” But he’s already hard—I can see the bulge in his jeans—and he doesn’t wait for an answer. He kneels between my thighs, pushes my hand away, replaces it with his mouth. Hot, wet tongue lapping at me like he’s starving. I arch off the bed at the thought, fingers moving faster, slick sounds filling the room.

I’m so close. My breath comes in short pants. Just a little more—

The front door slams.

My heart slams harder. I freeze, fingers still inside me, pulse thundering in my ears.

Footsteps. Heavy, deliberate. Coming up the stairs.

“Laura?” His voice echoes through the hallway. Closer now. “You home, sweetheart?”

Panic and something darker flood me. I yank my hand free, wipe it hastily on the sheet, tug my shorts down. My face burns. My pussy throbs, unfinished, aching. I sit up, smooth my hair, try to look normal.

He appears in the doorway. Tall frame filling it, paper bag from the store in one hand. He’s in his usual weekend clothes—faded jeans, black T-shirt stretched across his chest. His eyes sweep the room, then land on me.

“You okay?” he asks. “You look flushed.”

I force a smile. “Just… hot in here. The AC’s not helping much.”

He nods, but his gaze lingers on my legs—on the way my shorts have ridden up again, exposing the crease where thigh meets hip. I don’t fix them. I let him look.

He steps inside, sets the bag on my dresser. “Brought home some ice cream. Thought we could share before your mom gets back.”

My mouth goes dry. “That sounds nice.”

He doesn’t leave. Instead, he leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching me. The air feels thicker, charged. I can smell him—sawdust, clean sweat, that faint cologne he wears. My clit pulses in time with my heartbeat.

“You sure you’re alright?” His voice drops lower. “You were breathing kinda hard when I came in.”

Oh God. Did he hear me? The thought sends a fresh wave of heat through me.

“I was… stretching,” I lie. “Yoga. On the bed.”

His eyes flick to the rumpled sheets, then back to me. A muscle ticks in his jaw. “Yoga, huh?”

I nod, too quickly.

He pushes off the frame, steps closer. Not touching, but close enough that I have to tilt my head to meet his eyes. “You know you can talk to me, right? About anything.”

My thighs press together instinctively. The pressure only makes it worse. “I know, Daddy.”

The word slips out before I can stop it. Not “Mark.” Daddy.

His breath catches—just for a second. His pupils dilate. He doesn’t correct me.

Instead, he reaches out, slow, like he’s testing something. His fingers brush a strand of hair off my cheek, then trail down to my shoulder. Bare skin under his touch. I shiver.

“You’re shaking,” he murmurs.

“It’s the heat,” I whisper back. But we both know it’s not.

His hand doesn’t move away. It slides lower, thumb grazing the strap of my tank top, then the swell of my breast. Not grabbing—just resting there, heavy with possibility. My nipple strains against the thin fabric, begging for more.

“Laura…” His voice is rough now. “This is dangerous.”

I don’t pull back. I lean in, just a fraction. “I know.”

His thumb circles once, slow, deliberate. A spark shoots straight to my core. I gasp softly.

He groans—low, almost pained—and steps back, hand dropping. “We shouldn’t.”

But he doesn’t leave. He just stands there, chest rising and falling, eyes locked on mine like he’s fighting every instinct to close the distance again.

The house is still quiet. Mom won’t be home for hours.

I lick my lips. “Daddy… what if I want to?”

His control cracks. Just a hair. But it’s enough.

He exhales sharply. “Bedroom door stays open. For now.”

My heart races. Not a yes. Not a no.

An opportunity.

I nod, pulse roaring. “Okay.”

He turns toward the hallway, but pauses. Looks back over his shoulder. “Ice cream’s melting downstairs. Come down when you’re… ready.”

His eyes drop to where my thighs are still clenched together, then back up. A promise. A warning.

Then he’s gone.

I collapse back on the bed, hand slipping between my legs again. This time, I don’t hold back. I rub fast, hard, picturing his mouth, his hands, the way he almost touched me more. The orgasm hits like a wave—sharp, guilty, shattering. I muffle my cry in the pillow.

But it’s not enough.

Not anymore.

I stand on shaky legs, fix my clothes, and head downstairs.