Lahat ng Kabanata ng DIRTY DADDIES: Kabanata 71 - Kabanata 80

CHAPTER 1: DADDY’S DESSERTAVA’S POV (WARNING: ADOPTED FAMILY INCEST AND DUBIOUS CONSENT!)The turkey was still warm when Daddy’s cock split me open on the dining table, but the real feast was just beginning.Let’s go back to the beginning. I’ve always been the one who thinks things through. The Harper who reads Kant for fun, who organizes charity drives with color-coded spreadsheets, who believes in boundaries like they’re sacred. Adopted at fourteen into this loud, loving chaos of a family, I learned to police myself early. Skirt lengths measured, hugs timed, questions about why Mom’s hands lingered on my hips filed under just affectionate. Grant, Dad, ruled with quiet authority, his ex-military frame a wall I never dared lean on too hard. Lydia, Mom, ruled with softness, her curves and cookies wrapping around me until I couldn’t tell where comfort ended and something else began. Eli, adopted at sixt

COCO’S POV Tuesday nights are my graveyard shift from life. Same fluorescent hellhole, same squeaky cart with the possessed wheel, same list scrawled on whatever scrap of paper I can find: milk, eggs, bread, chips, wine, the kind that comes in a box because who has energy for corkscrews? I’m thirty-two, divorced, and the highlight of my week is deciding between salted or kettle-cooked. Pathetic? Yeah. But it’s mine.GreenLeaf Grocers smells like bleach and broken dreams. The Muzak is stuck on a loop of 80s ballads that make me want to claw my ears off. I’m in my usual attire: a faded sundress that’s more hole than fabric, thin enough that the AC kisses my nipples into peaks. No bra, fuck laundry. No panties, fuck everything. The hem skims mid-thigh, and when I bend for the bottom shelf, the air hits my bare cunt . What if someone sees? The thought flickers, dirty and delicious, then dies. No one ever looks twi

RITA’S POVI kicked the door shut with my heel, the thud still echoing as I clawed at my blouse. Buttons pinged off the hardwood, my pencil skirt followed, and the lace thong—drenched since the elevator ride up—was ripped down my thighs and flung into the corner. I’m Rita Moreau—twenty-three, junior copywriter, the girl who can sell a campaign in six words—and tonight this apartment is my personal fuck-den.The salt lamp on the dresser threw gold across the room, licking over my skin like a hungry mouth. My nipples were already diamond-hard, begging for teeth, and the neat strip above my pussy glistened like I’d been edging since breakfast. I didn’t bother with lights; the amber haze was perfect for what I had planned. I dropped to my knees on the thick towel I’d spread out earlier—practical, always, even when I’m about to ruin myself—and spread my thighs so wide the mirror showed me everything: swollen lips parted like a whore’s invitation, clit throbbing visibly, cunt dripping

CHAPTER 2: ON MY KNEES FOR DADDYDEMI’S POVI clutched his shoulders, nails digging through wool, feeling the flex of muscle beneath. He groaned into the kiss, the sound rumbling from his chest to mine, and then his fingers hooked the crotch of my panties and yanked. Lace scraped over swollen lips, the elastic snapping against my hip before he shoved it aside. Two fingers plunged in, curling hard against that spot that made my vision spark white at the edges.“Fuck,” he rasped against my mouth, pumping once, twice, knuckles slick with me. “You’re absolutely drenched. Been creaming these pretty panties since the lobby, haven’t you?”“Yes,” I whined, hips chasing his hand shamelessly. The shame I’d carried for weeks felt ridiculous now, a paper wall against the flood of him.He worked me like he’d studied my body in secret—deep, dragging strokes that caught every ridge inside me, thumb grinding slow circles over my clit

CHAPTER 1: ROCK STAR COCKJUNO’S POVJune 12th Dear Diary, I swore I was done with musicians after Jake, that emotionally volatile guitarist who ghosted me mid-tour for a groupie with a trust fund and daddy issues. I promised myself no more late-night jam sessions that dissolved into even later-night entanglements, no more lyrics whispered against my skin, no more calloused fingers that knew exactly how to pluck strings and pull orgasms from my body in the same breath. I lied so spectacularly that it should be a crime. I’m fucking the entire band now, all four of them, and last night they discovered my delicious little secret. But let me back up, because the way I gained this kind of intimate access to The Hollow Saints is half the thrill. I’m Juno Vega, twenty-four, freelance photographer for Rolling Stone, the one whose camera gets me into every restricted area, every soundcheck, every after-party where the real magic happens. My press badge is my golden ticket, and my reput