All Chapters of ALL YOURS, DADDY: Chapter 111 - Chapter 120

ANA; I’ve been touching myself to thoughts of Uncle Marcus for over a year. Not innocent little daydreams. Filthy ones. I imagine him pinning me down on the bed he bought for me when I was twelve, one big hand around my throat while he fucks me so deep I can’t breathe. I picture him whispering “I raised you” right before he spits on my pussy and shoves his cock inside me like I’m his to ruin. I’ve come with three fingers buried deep, biting my pillow so I don’t moan “Daddy” too loud, feeling sick with guilt because he’s the man who held me when my parents died, who taught me how to ride a bike, who made me breakfast every morning for eleven years. He’s thirty-eight. I’m nineteen. He raised me like his own daughter. And I want him to fuck me like I’m not. Tonight

I couldn’t stay in my room.The house was too quiet, my skin too hot, my mind too loud with everything we weren’t saying. I lay in bed for what felt like hours, staring at the ceiling, replaying the way Marcus had looked at me on the couch — the guilt in his eyes, the hunger underneath it, the way his fingers had brushed my thigh like he was fighting not to touch me more. My pussy was still aching, still wet, still clenching around nothing every time I remembered the way he’d said my name.I got up.The hallway was dark. My bare feet made almost no sound on the wooden floor as I walked to his room. The door was slightly ajar, the way it always was when I was little and scared of the dark. I pushed it open without knocking.Marcus was sitting up in bed, the sheet pooled around his waist, chest bare. The lamp on his nightstand was on low, casting warm light across his shoulders and the hard lines of muscle he’d earned from years of manual work around the house. He looked at me, and for

RILEYI’ve wanted to fuck my neighbor Damien since the night he fixed my bedroom window last summer and I caught him staring at my legs like he wanted to spread them right there on the ladder.There. I said it. No pretty excuses, no pretending it’s just a harmless crush. I’m nineteen now, and for over a year this man has lived in my head rent-free, turning me into a dripping, aching mess every single time he so much as looks in my direction. He’s thirty-five. Divorced. The quiet, intense architect who lives alone in the sleek modern house next door. Tall, broad-shouldered, with that hint of silver threading through his dark hair at the temples and eyes that see way too much. He’s known me since I was sixteen — back when I was still the shy girl who blushed when he waved at me over the fence. Now I’m the girl who times her backyard “appearances” perfectly so I can watch him work out shirtless in his garage gym, sweat glistening on his chest and abs while I squeeze my thighs together a

I can’t pretend anymore. I need his hands on me or I’m going to lose my mind.Four days of this slow torture have pushed me past the edge. Every almost-touch, every lingering look, every low “little one” has left me raw and aching. My body feels like a live wire. I’ve been walking around dripping, thighs constantly slick, nipples tight against whatever I’m wearing. Touching myself isn’t enough anymore. I need him. His fingers. His mouth. The weight of him pressing me down.It’s a little after midnight on the fourth night. The neighborhood is silent except for the distant hum of the highway. I don’t bother with real clothes. I pull on the oversized gray T-shirt I stole from his laundry months ago — the one that still carries the faint scent of his cedarwood soap and warm skin. It falls to mid-thigh, soft and worn. Nothing underneath. My nipples are already hard, brushing against the fabric with every step. Between my legs I’m soaked, slick coating my inner thighs as I slip out the ba

Tonight I’m not leaving until he fucks me exactly the way I’ve been begging for in my head for a year.After last night, after his fingers wrecked me on the couch and he still sent me home with that wrecked “We can’t do this again,” I couldn’t pretend anymore. My body was screaming for him. My mind wouldn’t shut up. I spent all day replaying the way his thick fingers curled inside me, the way he held me down and called me a good girl while I came apart. By dinner I was soaked again, thighs clenched under the table, counting the minutes until it was late enough to sneak over.I waited until the neighborhood lights started going out. Then I crossed the grass in nothing but a loose tank top and tiny sleep shorts, heart hammering so hard it felt like it might bruise my ribs. This time I didn’t knock on the front door. I slipped around to the side entrance I knew he left unlocked sometimes, climbed the stairs quietly, and walked straight into his bedroom.Damien was sitting on the edge of