Hey, my name’s Daisy, and I’m here to spill the beans on how I got my daddy to fuck me. I’m 22 now, 5’1″ on the dot, pale as fresh cream with straight black hair that falls like a widow’s veil. I’ve got this big, perky ass that sways like a siren’s call, thick thighs that could crush a man’s regrets, and these little tits that barely fill a teacup—but oh, they know how to tease.
All this went down last year, when I was just 21… I’ve always been a wicked little thing, ever since I was knee-high to a grasshopper. I figured out how to touch myself way too young, and being an only child in that echoing house turned me into a solitary sinner, learning to chase my own thrills with a giggle and a gasp. Loneliness is the devil’s own aphrodisiac, isn’t it? It makes you invent paradises in the shadows.
Now, to the meat of it: At 21, I had this boyfriend—steady for a year or so—school in the mornings, slinging files as an intern in the afternoons. Last year, I stumbled onto these erotic story sites, and the incest tales, especially the daddy-daughter ones, hit me like a fever dream. I’d never eyed my old man that way before, not sexually, but damn if I wasn’t glued to him always. I craved his hugs, his lap like it was my throne. As a kid, I’d ride his knee like a wild pony, feeling that secret spark between my legs—a delicious itch I couldn’t name. Like I said, I was born with sin in my veins.Those stories lit a fire in me, and suddenly I was scheming to reel Daddy in. I’d get soaked just reading them, and then I’d start noticing him: Not handsome, no sir—not like those movie stars—but no troll either. Olive skin, built solid neither fat nor frail, tall enough to loom like a family ghost, 43 years baked into his bones. The kind of man who’d never turn my head on the street, but now? He haunted my wet dreams. I’d rub one out picturing him taking me, pounding me, his mouth devouring me whole. I’d come like a storm, so obsessed I’d wake up drenched, slick as a serpent, and finish myself off quick with frantic fingers, chasing that phantom high.
Daddy works the swing shift, 1 p.m. to 10 at night; Mom’s the early bird, 7 a.m. to 4 p.m. Our house is a carousel of chaos—everyone hustling, no time for the heart’s quiet crimes. Weekends? I’d bolt to Matt’s place Friday night, back Sunday evening. Daddy hated it, gnashing his teeth like a jealous god, but Mom would wave it off: “She’s independent, works hard, studies harder—let the girl breathe.” Freedom’s just another word for temptation, though, ain’t it?
I started my seduction campaign at night, when he’d stumble in bone-tired. After supper, he’d park in front of the TV, and I’d claim my spot on his lap, letting his hands roam innocent-like over my belly. That touch alone had me throbbing, a schoolgirl’s ploy with a whore’s intent. I’d lean over in these tiny denim shorts, ass cheeks peeking like forbidden fruit, catching his sneaky glances—nothing lecherous, just a flicker. It drove me mad with frustration. Guilt gnawed at me like a confessor’s whisper: This is your father, you filthy thing. So wrong… but God, so right, like biting into the apple and tasting eternity.
One Friday night, I lied to Matt—told him I was cramming for a test, hitting his place Saturday morning instead. Fridays wear Mom out; after a week of grinding and scrubbing the house top to bottom, she’s out cold by 10, dead to the world even if thunder cracked the sky. Daddy loves his movies, so I sidled up beside him in this skimpy babydoll nightie—no panties, no bra—the thin silk hugging my plump little pussy like a lover’s lie. We picked something steamy; when he clocked my getup, his eyes dipped quick to the shadow between my thighs. I perched sideways on his lap, legs parted just enough to flash my slit clear as sin. I smirked inside, nestling in, his fingers tracing lazy circles on my tummy. I was on fire, so I spread a tad wider—and his hand drifted to my thigh, stroking up the inner seam, brushing my crotch like a promise unspoken. My cunt fluttered like a trapped bird, but he played it cool, glued to the screen. The whole flick passed that way, teasing torture.
He queued up another; that’s when inspiration struck like lightning in a bottle. Midway through, I faked a yawn, murmuring, “Daddy, mind if I nap a bit on your lap?”
He chuckled soft. “If you’re sleepy, hit the sack, baby girl.”
“But I wanna finish the movie,” I whined, all sugar and spice.
“Alright then, crash a spell in Daddy’s arms.” He pecked my cheek over and over, his beard prickling like a thousand tiny sins, making me squirm with heat and laughter.
I twisted around, straddling him full-on, one knee per side, my bare pussy kissing the thin cotton of his boxers. I fidgeted “to get comfy” while his hands warmed my back. Then, feigning sleep, I slumped against his shoulder—and felt his cock twitch to life beneath me, steel under silk. I gushed fresh, his palms sliding lower, grazing my ass cheeks. When he figured I was out cold, he cupped my buns full, kneading gentle, grinding me down onto that rock-hard ridge. I bit back a moan like it was poison, my slit parting around the bulge, my juices soaking through for sure. He squeezed harder, rocking me subtle, and let out a ragged breath—he knew, oh he knew, I was dripping for him. Eyes shut tight, I started to grind slow, forward and back, sighing like a sigh from hell.
His grip turned vise-like, urging me on, faster, filthier. I couldn’t believe it—this biblical taboo unfolding in our living room—but I rode the wave, humping shameless, moans spilling free. Daddy just panted heavy, no words, just the symphony of our shame: my whimpers, his grunts. My pussy clenched and wept, his hands bruising my ass in ecstasy. It built frantic, feverish—a race to ruin. I buried my face in his neck, whispering hot nothings, then reared up, palms on his chest, grinding like a streetwalker in heat, eyes still sealed. The orgasm hit like Judgment Day, slamming my cunt down hard on his bulge as his hoarse roar told me he’d burst too, flooding his shorts with daddy’s milk.
I collapsed, breaths ragged as a storm’s aftermath. Adrenaline ebbed, silence fell like a curtain. He scooped me up, carried me to my room, tucked me in like nothing—and vanished without a syllable. Door clicked shut; I stripped bare, legs splayed, fingers diving into my swollen, sticky slit. All night I replayed it, coming again and again to the memory of that lap-dance damnation.
Saturday dawned; I fled early to Matt’s, guilt clawing my guts like a family curse. Betraying Mom, that saintly shadow? Cheating on Matt, my innocent anchor? Vile. But deep down, in the marrow of my madness, I knew: Give me half a chance, and I’d dive back into that abyss. Daddy’s pull was a madness, a monsoon in my blood—irresistible as original sin.
Weekend blurred; Sunday night, I dragged home to an empty house—parents out boozing with pals at some dive. I pounced on the couch, that altar of our fall, rubbing one out fierce, scenting the air with my surrender.
Monday, alarm wailed at 6 a.m.; rain lashed the windows like God’s own tears. I cracked the pane, watched the world weep, and called in sick to school—back to dreams. Woke to hands ghosting my skin, knowing full well whose they were. Eyes shut, I played possum, letting Daddy roam. Palms skimmed my tits, pinching nipples feather-light to keep the ruse. Down my belly, to the thin knit shorts hiding nothing—no panties, just my greedy heat. His fingers circled my clit through the fabric, and I ached to wail, parting my thighs “in sleep.” But he knew I was awake; he ground his palm hard into my mound, wrenching a moan from my throat. Then—poof—he yanked away, bolted like a thief in the night. I cracked an eye: 8 a.m. Ideas bloomed wicked. Shower first, denying my itch even as it screamed. Slipped into a tight baby tee, no bra—nipples saluting like traitors—and boxer briefs hugging my ass like a vice. Padded to the living room; there he was, in nothing but boxers, my pussy clenching at the sight of that familiar bulk.
“Mornin’, Daddy!”
He flushed, eyes raking me guilty. “Morning, princess. Why skip school?”
“Rain’s a flood out there,” I shrugged, flopping on the couch.
No more games—I owned my hunger now. I lounged against the armrest, legs akimbo, the tight briefs molding my pussy lips like a sculptor’s lie. His gaze locked there, hungry as a dog at the feast. I ignored it, trailing fingers over my tits casual-like, hardening those peaks to beacons. Then down, stroking my slit over the cotton, eyes flicking to him—stunned, cock swelling obvious under his shorts.
“Daisy, what the hell? I’m your father—show some respect!”
Voice gravel-rough, feigning fury, but his hard-on betrayed him like a Judas kiss.
I kept circling my clit, smirking sly. “Didn’t seem to bother you when you groped me this morning.”
“That’s… that’s so damn wrong.”
“But so fucking good, Daddy. Doesn’t the forbidden make your blood boil?”
“Daisy…”
One warning, half-hearted as a confessor’s sigh. I rose, shedding the briefs amid his protests—weak as water. Peeled off the tee, bare as Eve in the garden before him. He stared, slack-jawed, devouring my pale curves. I giggled low, propped one foot on the couch, fingers parting my slick folds—offering my pink paradise on a platter.
“Jesus, what a pretty little cunt.”
Mumbled like a prayer to himself.
“All yours, Daddy.”
He broke—lunged, hands clamping my ass, yanking me to his mouth. I arched back, howling as his tongue plunged my slit, flicking my clit like a lash of lightning. Trembling, I ground on his face, repressing years of filthy longing, fisting his hair.
“Oh fuck, Daddy—gonna come in your mouth, yes—shit, I’m coming, coming so hard!”
Waves crashed eternal; I’d never shattered like that, body quaking like a leaf in fornication’s gale. He hauled me to his lap before I crumpled, his cock a battering ram against my spent pussy—rekindling the blaze. I humped frantic, ignoring the tender ache, moaning wild. His hands roamed my skin like conquerors; mouth latched my tiny tits, sucking bruises into the flesh. Our lips crashed—wet, savage, beards scraping like penance, tongues dueling in a whirl of want. I needed him inside, claiming me, splitting me like forbidden fruit.
Freed his cock from the boxers—thick as a thief’s promise, veined and veering north. My mouth watered; I stroked him slow, drinking his groans.
“That’s it, baby girl—jerk Daddy good, you dirty little slut.”
Those words? Incendiary. “Your slut, Daddy.”
I impaled myself brutal, the stretch a sweet sting, and bounced like a demon possessed, wailing.
“Fuck, you’re splitting me open—your cock’s a monster, oh God, heaven!”
He thrust up savage, syncing our frenzy—me dropping, him spearing, a ballet of beasts. Slaps rained on my ass, red as repentance; kisses sloppy as sin, hickeys blooming on my breasts. Then he flipped me rough—on all fours, him naked now, shoving that dick to my lips. I devoured it, slurping greedy while his fat fingers reamed my cunt. Drool cascaded; I deep-throated, gagged glorious, lapped his balls like holy water. Best blowjob of my born days—till he pulled free, growling, and mounted me doggy on the couch. Plunged deep; the wet slaps echoed like applause for our downfall, moans mingling in the air thick as incest’s fog. Pleasure coiled tight; I begged faster, harder—we weren’t father and daughter anymore, just man and woman, locked in the eternal rut.
“Gonna come on your cock, Daddy—pound me, fuck yes!”
He snarled filth, treating me like the whore I craved to be. “Come on it, you filthy bitch—squirt for Daddy!”
It ripped through me fiercer than before—body convulsing, squirting slick, orgasms chaining like rosary beads of rapture. I screamed, cunt clamping demonic; his bellow followed, flooding my depths with hot ropes, primal as a beast’s roar. He withdrew; I sprawled spent, twitching in aftershocks. His voice, winded: “This never should’ve happened. Won’t again.”
He dressed hasty—late for work—and fled. I grinned, no guilt’s shadow on my soul. I’d claimed my prize, and in the twisted theater of family, the curtain never truly falls. I’d have him yet, because some sins are symphonies, played on the bones of the forbidden.
