روايات وقصص ضمن Daddy Literotica

Just the way he likes it. She had been so sure that she would fuck tonight. She reminds him of the woman that sired him about three hundred years earlier. New York wasn’t filled with automobiles then; flaming torches still powered the lights of the clubs. Every time he fucks, Lucas remembers how horny he had been that night. Like every worker, he had dragged himself to the bar; his pocket was filled with coins for some ale and a moment of pleasure with a nice girl.

Then softly whispered one terrified word: “Daddy…”

He stopped behind me and cupped my ass with both hands, squeezing hard. “This is beautiful, I can't lie,” he murmured. “This would be a perfect fucking body for Daddy to ruin, am I wrong?.” My breath caught in my chest. That word again — Daddy — made my clit pulse. He walked over to the table and dropped a thick stack of papers on it. “Read it first then sign on every page.”

“And why on earth am I not the right man?” “BECAUSE I LOVE YOU, YOU IDIOT!” I scream, my voice echoing around us. “You’re a horrible fit because I love you. I’ve been in love with you since you saved me from the rain that day. Now do you get it? We can’t be family because that would mean that I’ve always been in love with my own dad.”

"I get it, daddy, I'm yours! Yours to use, yours to fuck however you want." Vincent stared at her for a beat, amusement flickering in his eyes before it twisted into a dark chuckle, low and dangerous. "So fucking cock-hungry, aren't you, kitten? Careful what you wish for, I'll ruin you and leave you breathless, dripping and still craving more of daddy's load." "I don't mind," she panted, her tongue darting out to lick her lips again. "Ruin me, daddy. I want it all."

Now all she felt looking at her daddy was dread… and unholy, unquenchable lust. “Oh, Jess Jess. Daddy's sweet, little forgetful whore,” he taunted her, thrusting up sharply to punctuate his words. “After every fucking fight with that limp dicked Robert, you show up here crying, begging daddy to fuck the hurt away. Just like you did mere seconds ago. And I always do, don't I? I pound that tight cunt until you forget his name.” Jessica's heart hammered wildly, her daddy's gaze fierce and predatory as he stared into her soul.

why daddy? 'That's because you’re so fucking hot,' he said, lifting his head, eyes locked on hers. 'I'm gonna make you feel every bit of how perfect you are.' He sucked her clit hard, two fingers thrusting into her, curling to stroke her g-spot. She bucked, tears spilling over. Daddy! I'm... I'm coming!' she cried, pussy clenching around his fingers, juices soaking his hand. He lapped it all up, murmuring, 'That's it, come for me. Let it all out for daddy.'

Anything to keep my hands busy and my mind off the images that kept replaying on loop: Eve’s back arched off the mattress like a bowstring, thighs trembling around my ears, her cunt clenching and gushing while she screamed my name and I pumped every drop deep into my father’s widow. My father’s widow. The phrase sat in my gut like battery acid, corroding everything. By dusk I was back in my room, lights off, sprawled on the bed in nothing but boxers, trying to jerk off to p**n on my phone — anything faceless, anything safe. My cock stayed half-hard, uninterested, because every time I closed my eyes it was Eve again: her swollen lips stretched around me, her ass red from my palm, the way she’

A fresh start until her parents worked things out. But when someone answered the doorbell, Chloe knew it was only a matter of time before her new world burned to the ground. The door swung open, and it wasn’t Rachel standing there to say hello. It was her father, Harvey Fletcher. His brown hair lay tousled to the side, with the first three buttons of his shirt undone. He pushed up his sleeves, revealing a round tattoo on his arm. He stood there, confident in a way that made her spine tighten. “Chloe,” he said, voice warm and dangerously gentle.

As requested: Assignment: Write a one-page, personal entry on the influence of literature on your imagination. Literature has fueled my imagination from a very young age. My earliest memory is of sitting on my daddy’s knee when I was a little girl, while he read me a bedtime story. He passed on his love of great literature, and I have fond memories of the imaginative worlds we shared: from Narnia and Middle Earth to the prairie of early America and later, battles that forged our nation. He never shielded me from the heartache in the pages of those books but used them as a tool to teach me about life, history, hopes, and dreams.