Chapter 7: Ripped By My Roommate’s Dad(7)

~Maya~

I didn’t go back to the guest room that night. I couldn’t. There was no way. Not after what he did to me. Not after how he bent me over that mirror and split me open and filled me so deep I couldn’t even hold it in.

My legs were shaking so bad I could barely walk, and my pussy—God, my pussy—was so sore and swollen and soaked that every step felt like an aftershock, like a reminder that I let my best friend’s dad breed me over a sink.

He didn’t even give me a towel. Didn’t let me clean up. He made me sleep in his bed, face down, legs spread, with his cum leaking out of me and pooling between my thighs while he wrapped a hand around my waist and kept me there like I was a toy he didn’t plan on returning. He didn’t say a word. Just pulled the covers over us and made me stay full of him all night.

And in the morning?

He licked it out of me.

I swear to God—before I could even open my eyes, before I could sit up or say anything, his hands were on my hips and his mouth was between my legs, and I was moaning so loud I had to bite the pillow just to muffle it.

And the worst part? Kayla was downstairs making pancakes. She was playing music in the kitchen like it was just another Saturday, like she didn’t know her dad was upstairs eating me out while his cum from the night before was still dripping down my thighs.

I didn’t go back to the guest room after that. Not once. Not even to grab a sweatshirt. My shit is still folded in that little Ikea dresser and I don’t even care. I’ve been sleeping in the master bedroom for two weeks now and no one’s said a thing because Dean—sorry, Daddy—makes sure I don’t leave until I’m limping.

By the end of the week, I wasn’t even pretending to play innocent anymore. He had me on a leash. Not a real one. Not yet. But still. A leash made of rules. Of texts. Of dominance I couldn’t say no to. He would send me messages before dinner like:

No panties.

No bra.

No eye contact while Kayla’s in the room.

If you disobey, I’ll punish you where she can hear.

And like an idiot, I didn’t listen.

I wore lace under my dress one night because I thought it’d be hot. I thought he’d like it. But no. He dragged me into the garage mid-dinner.

Didn’t even wait. Bent me over the hood of his car, yanked my panties down, shoved them in my mouth, and fucked me so hard I came twice before he even finished talking.

He pulled out, slapped my ass, and said, “You’ll sit through dessert with my cum dripping out of you. And you won’t make a sound. Understand me, kitten?”

And I did. I sat across the table from my best friend with his cum soaking through my dress and pooling on the chair while she told me about her psych class. I nodded. I smiled.

I squirmed in my seat and pretended I wasn’t two seconds from crying because I was so full and so used and so fucking in love with the man destroying my life.

And it just kept getting worse.

That was the first time he took me to a hotel. He sent me a text after class like it was nothing:

Pack a bag. Room’s under Mr. D.

And like the dumb, soaking, slutty little girl I’d become, I packed. I put on a hoodie and a skirt with no underwear, and I let him pick me up like I was his girlfriend. Like I was something that belonged to him.

He made me wear a plug in the car.

Made me sit on his lap in the elevator.

Made me crawl across the hotel carpet in heels while he sat on the bed, fully dressed, watching me with those cold, hungry eyes like I was dessert and he hadn’t even started yet.

He didn’t let me cum unless I begged the right way. If I said “please” but didn’t say “Daddy,” he’d stop. If I begged but didn’t cry, he’d edge me until I was shaking.

One night, I sobbed for so long my throat burned, and you know what he did? He wiped my tears with his fingers and shoved them in my mouth and said, “There’s my good girl,” and then made me cum so many times I passed out.

I don’t know who I am anymore.

I barely recognize myself.

I’m 18. I’m supposed to be studying. Making friends. Going to frat parties. But instead, I’m sneaking into his bed every night. I’m taking Plan B in secret. I’m sucking his cock under the dinner table while Kayla watches YouTube five feet away. I’m saying “Yes, Daddy” every time he calls me “mine.”

Kayla’s not dumb.

She’s starting to see it.

She says things like, “Why is my dad always asking where you are?”

And “He’s been acting weird since you moved in.”

And “You two never used to talk. What changed?”

And I don’t know what to say.

Because what changed?

Everything.

Last night, we were all playing cards. She was in the middle of telling me about some guy she liked in class, and Dean was sitting across the table sipping whiskey like he wasn’t the reason I couldn’t sit straight. I could feel his cum still inside me. I swear to God. I’d been full of him since 3 p.m., and I wasn’t allowed to shower. That was one of his rules.

And then he looked at me.

Just looked. Like that.

And I almost fucking came.

He leaned in slowly, reached under the table while Kayla was still talking, slid his fingers between my legs—and whispered, “I can still feel me dripping out of you. Don’t let it hit the carpet, kitten.”

And I swear—

My pussy clenched so hard around nothing I thought I was gonna pass out.

I smiled. I blushed. I said, “Sorry, what were you saying?”

And Kayla? She just blinked.

She doesn’t know.

Not yet.

But she’s about to.

Because I missed my period.