All Chapters of His Father's Claim.: Chapter 1 - Chapter 10

I was already two fingers deep when I reached for the dildo. It sat on the nightstand like it had been waiting for me all day, appearing all thicck, heavy, the fucking same dull pink as Adrian’s cock when he was hard and leaking. I wrapped my hand around it, spat on the head, and smeared the spit down the shaft until it shone. Then I pushed my panties aside and lined it up. The first inch stretched me open with that familiar burn. I hissed through my teeth and kept going, slow, watching the way my cunt swallowed it. When it bottomed out I stayed still for a second, just feeling full, then started fucking myself with it. Giving myself long, filthy wet strokes. The sound was filthy, slick and loud in the quiet bedroom. My other hand found my clit and rubbed in tight circles, the way Adrian always did when he wanted me to come fast. “Fuck… yes… just like that…” The dildo was nice. I had paid extra for the one that felt closest to skin, the one that warmed in my hand, and rig

The thick head of his cock pushed into me in one slow, relentless slide. I was still wet from everything that came before—Adrian’s fingers, the car, Richard’s mouth, my own shame—but the stretch still forced a broken sound out of my throat. He was bigger than his son. Thicker. He didn’t stop until he was buried to the base and my cunt was stretched around him like it had never been stretched before. My legs were already over his shoulders. He had folded me open so I had no choice but to look at him while he started moving. Slowly Deep, hard 'n brutal from the first stroke. Each thrust shoved the air out of me. The wet sound of him fucking into my soaked cunt filled the bedroom. The same bed where I’d fucked myself with the dildo hours earlier while thinking about Adrian. Now Adrian’s father was balls-deep inside me, hips snapping, the heavy weight of him pinning me down. “This is what my son threw away,” Richard growled, his voice was low and rough. He pulled almost all the

The colder night air hit instantly when we stepped outside the bar, but the alcohol had already turned everything soft and warm around the edges. The two of them walked close—one on each side—like they’d already decided I wasn’t going anywhere alone. The taller one had a steady hand low on my back. The darker-haired one kept brushing his fingers against mine every few steps, casual, like he was testing how much I’d allow. I didn’t ask where we were going. I just let them pour me into the back of a black car that smelled like leather and money. The city lights smeared past the windows. Someone’s hand settled on my thigh, high enough that the heat of it soaked through my jeans. Another hand slid under my loose top and found bare skin. No bra. My nipple hardened against the rough warmth of a palm. I made a small sound and let my head fall back against the seat. The building they took me to was all glass and quiet luxury—doorman, private elevator that needed a key card, the kind of

I woke up on the rug in that penthouse with sunlight cutting across my bare legs and the taste of two strangers still in my mouth. My body felt wrecked. Sore between my thighs, ass tender, jaw aching, dried come on my stomach and the insides of my legs. The place was silent. No note. No numbers. Just the city stretching out beyond the glass like nothing had happened. I found my clothes in a pile near the couch, pulled them on, with shaking hands, and got out of there before anyone could come back. The next few weeks felt surreal. I texted Richard the same night. He came over. We fucked like we were trying to erase the previous night(by fucking more), then again the morning after. It kept happening. Late evenings where I’d open the door already wet. Mornings where I’d wake up with his arm heavy across my waist and the ache of him still inside me. He started staying over more. Left a spare shirt in my closet. Asked about my rent, my hours, the dead-end job that barely covered anyt

I spent the morning trying not to look at anyone. Richard’s come had dried on my thighs overnight. I’d scrubbed in the shower until my skin stung, but I still felt marked. Every time I shifted in my chair I remembered the desk, the way he’d held my hair, the wet sound of him finishing inside me. Grant’s face in the hallway afterward kept flashing behind my eyes—that long, knowing look that said he already owned a piece of whatever came next. He started early. First it was a budget sheet he could have sent in an email (as usual). He dropped it on my desk, leaned down like he was pointing something out, and spoke just loud enough for me. “You’re sitting like you’re still full of him. Cute.” My pen slipped. Heat flooded straight between my legs. He was already walking away, that almost-smile on his mouth, before I could say anything. An hour later he came back with a question about a vendor contract that made zero sense. This time he rested one hand on the back of my chair,