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Jun 12, 2025

tangled roots chapter 1

GILF (60) Joel Miller x f!reader “Princess” (18) - no race/physical description

18+ only, minors get the fuck off my blog or I'll call your mother

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Fic notes: "Princess" is f!reader insert but NO racial or physical description other than boobs and a pussy, i want to put a little fire in your furnace and i want readers of ALL backgrounds to be able to imagine yourself in her place if you want, that's the whole point of reader insert... this series has nothing to do with canon except that Joel is a contractor and is from Texas, this fic is for girlies who are 18+ only, small town vibes, age gap but everyone is legal (reader is 18 and Joel is 60), very paternal tender loving care by dominant Joel (but he punishes, too), heavy religious overtones/religion used as control, super patriarchal relationship structure, references to physical and emotional retaliation by Joel (degrading names, throat squeezing), references to Joel's previous physical and emotional control of Reader, dub/non-con due to power imbalance, Reader is a little a lot brainwashed, Reader has been dreaming of this day for longer than she can say, Joel’s been waiting for this day and it’s finally here, virginity loss, corruption of innocence kink, breeding kink on Joel’s part… Some tags intentionally left out of this first chapter to avoid spoilers! (you’ve been warned!!)

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“You gonna be a good girl for me, Princess?” Mister Miller swipes one big thumb over your cheek, then up your temple, where a sheen of sweat has started to appear.

His long legs are stretched out next to yours where you lay on your back in his big bed, his hot half-hard manhood pressed against your right hip. His big, meaty palm cups the right side of your skull, thick fingers wrapping around to the back, and it’s dizzying how there’s still enough of that hand left over for Mister Miller to bring his thumb up to touch the side of your face with ease while he’s propped up on one elbow next to you.

“Yessir, Mister Miller,” you huff, closing your eyes to concentrate on the sensations he’s causing with his other hand, his rough fingers tickling over the outside curve of your left breast, then skimming the underside before skittering down your hip and across your belly. You squirm, gasping when his fingers stroke the crease between your torso and thigh. So close to where you want him, but a thousand miles away.

You’ve been dreaming, secretly yearning for this day for so long, and a part of you wonders how Mister Miller could possibly have known what was going on inside your “pretty little head.” But then Mister Miller always seems to know you, doesn't he?

You’re a terrible fibber and can’t hide a single thing from him; not a birthday surprise or a half-done chore, and especially not your largest transgression to date: two puffs of a delicate menthol cigarette in Erica's car during your usual Friday night outing to the Sonic after youth group, which Mister Miller somehow smelled on you the minute you got home. You spent more than a few hours regretting that one, when his punishment of choice had been to sit you down on the back porch and force you to smoke one after another of his filterless Marlboros until you vomited.

You relish the scrape of his blunt fingernails, his work-roughened hands that are always clean and gentlemanly when he takes your hand to help you down out of the truck. Mister Miller works hard to keep you fed and clothed and taken care of, but he always, always has clean fingernails when he’s finished working. He says it’s the mark of a man with pride, a man who knows how to take care of the smaller things in life. He says no one will notice if your fingernails are clean, but they’ll sure as hell notice if they’re dirty, and men with dirty fingernails don’t deserve to touch sweet young ladies like you, or any lady for that matter.

“S’at feel good, darlin’?”

“Ohh, yeah... oh fuck–”

“Language, Princess.” His free hand is suddenly at your throat, squeezing just enough to remind you who’s in charge, one big leg thrown over both of yours and pressing to hold you down. Your eyes fly open with fear.

“You watch your fuckin’ mouth when you’re in my bed, ‘specially when I’m takin’ the time to show you somethin’ special.” His big brown eyes search yours for understanding, his scowl more sad than angry.

“Yes, sir,” you mewl, tears springing to your eyes at his disappointment. You want to be good for him, always his good girl. It’s just that sometimes the rough language you use outside the house seeps in, stays glued in your subconscious. You hear Mister Miller use it all the time, and you secretly chafe at his double standard that you’re not allowed to use swear words while you’re under his roof, when it seems like every other word out of his mouth is a ‘fuck’ or a ‘goddamn’. So you soak in it when you’re not around him, cussing up a storm with your girlfriends at school, or taking long walks out in nature just to fling four-letter words at the squirrels and the birds.

You sniffle and nod, grating out a rough, whispered, “I’m sorry, sir.”

His eyes soften and he loosens his grip, flattening his palm to pet down your sternum, stopping to cup your right breast and squeeze it affectionately. A warm smile breaks out on his face, making those wonderful crinkles appear next to his eyes, and the afternoon sun streaming in the window behind him turns his silver hair golden. He’s so beautiful.

He runs the backs of his knuckles down your stomach, then his fingers land in your soft thatch of pubic hair and he tickles you softly. You giggle and break out in goosebumps, shivering with how good it feels to have his hot skin touching yours.

Mister Miller never runs cold; he’s like a space heater, and it’s been a real bad habit of yours that you hug him longer than is strictly necessary when you’re cold, which is always. You’ve never felt his skin bare like this before, his heat is always muted by his flannel or his jeans, and he’s never touched your exposed skin with his big hands until now. It’s always been a fatherly squeeze of your shoulder, or a bear hug where he keeps his hands (to your disappointment) above your waist. You land a kiss on his stubbled cheek every evening before you go up to bed, but your favorite skin-to-skin contact has always been the rare, treasured forehead kiss.

You savor the way your stomach flutters when he wraps his big hand around to cup the back of your head, leaning down to press his chapped lips to your forehead when he’s particularly proud of something you’ve done. Those are your favorite, something you know he doesn’t do to anyone else. Only you get the benefit of Mister Miller’s forehead kisses, and you feel special and awful every time. You know it’s wrong for you to inhale his spicy cologne, wrong for you to peek down his collar to ogle his salt & pepper chest hair, wronger than wrong to wish his lips would drift further south and land on yours in a very non-paternal way.

But you always stuff those icky feelings down and sigh, taking what you can get from him, whenever you can get it. You’re starved for attention, and when Mr. Miller gives it to you, you gobble it up like a dog that hasn’t eaten in weeks.

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Joel has been waiting for this for a long time, stuffing down every predatory instinct in his diseased brain, counting down the hours, the minutes until your 18th birthday. He had told you he had a big surprise for you, something special for his Princess, and you’d grinned and bounced up and down on your toes, peppering him with gleeful questions.

“What is it? Can you give me just a hint?” Your big eyes had sparkled, and Joel almost gave in right then and there, confessing every dirty thought he had ever harbored about you.

But Joel Miller was a man of control, of discipline, and he knew that keeping a tight rein on you was more necessary now than ever. He shook his head and frowned at you, and you immediately got yourself under control, albeit a bit petulantly.

The plump part of your lower lip stuck out just a fraction, and you folded your delicate hands together and sighed. “I know, I know… I’ll just have to wait and see.”

Joel grinned at that. So obedient. He’d hadn’t even had to open his mouth, and you’d immediately clocked his displeasure and corrected yourself. A gift, he thought, an angel straight from heaven. What a treasure you were turning out to be. All the months and years of caretaking, stepping up to be your guardian, taking you in when you had nowhere else to go, all the million little frustrations and inconveniences… it was all going to be worth it.

The better part of him could admit that even if his plan never came to fruition, it had already been worth it. You were a good girl, a decent student, polite to everyone you met, and almost a copy of your mama’s ethereal beauty (may she rest in peace). Even if Joel never got a taste of you, never got the chance to push himself inside you and break you open for the first time, put his dick where he knew it was meant to go, you would still have a good life, and your upbringing for the past ten years under his roof had a large part to do with that. But come hell or high water, Joel was going to take his prize, train you up to his standards, and bury himself so deep in you that you would never forget him as long as you lived.

You might actually be an angel sent from heaven, just for Joel. And while God may not have intended for him to fuck you (more likely it was the other fella), Joel was sure the trip to Hell would be worth it. But then again, Joel hadn’t ever worried much about his eternal soul anyway.

He knew he’d been damned from the get-go, decades before you were even born.

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You’re gasping for air, suffocating on your own pleasure, and you swear if you died now you would die happy. Mister Miller is doing something with his big hand, something you never could have imagined would feel so good, and the sensation between your legs is so overwhelming that you struggle to even name what’s happening. You haven’t ever lost your capacity for speech like this in your entire life, but now that you’ve tasted it, it’s all you want. You want to go stone dumb, never have to think again, just float like this and let Mister Miller do whatever he wants.

You turn your head to bury your face against Mister Miller’s neck, his huge, warm bicep under your head keeping you grounded, even as your head spins with the novelty of what he’s doing. Even worse, you’re dizzy with the full assault on your olfactory senses, getting a front-row seat to the scent of him, forbidden for so long. You had always coveted the rare chance to tuck your head against Mister Miller during a hug or a forehead kiss, inhale the scent of his Old Spice deodorant and Brut aftershave and clean clothing. But now it’s a thousand times stronger, right up in your face, the manly, woodsy notes overlaying his sweat, his spit, just him. You long to bury your face under his arm and live there if he’d let you, just worship at his altar while he keeps doing that thing with his fingers. Stroking, petting, opening you like a flower bit by bit, touching the most private part of you.

There is the tiniest bit of resistance, though. A little voice that says this is wrong… but it feels so good, how can it be wrong? Mister Miller is always right, he knows so much about the big wide world that you don’t, and he has always steered you in the right direction. He’s given you so much, doesn’t he deserve to have something nice for himself?

No, you decide, not wrong. If this is wrong, then so is everything else he’s ever taught you, and that cannot be possible.

You let the next stroke of his thick fingers wipe your mind clean, and you give in to the electricity he’s generating between your legs. You hum and moan and whimper with each stroke, and Mister Miller seems to like it.

“That’s it, Princess, love your little noises. You’re such a good girl, lettin’ me show you how this goes. You ready for the next part?”

“Yes, sir.”

You feel him grin against your temple, and then his thick finger is in you, breaching your outer folds to delve deep inside where you’ve never been able to reach, no matter how many times you’ve tried.

You know masturbation is wrong, but you’ve been doing it like a fiend for years in secret, touching yourself every night before bed, thinking about Mister Miller’s big hands, his scent, his heat. Fantasizing that he would come into your room in the moonlight hours and help you out. Your fantasy usually ends as soon as you imagine him smiling at you, sitting on the edge of your frilly bedspread, tossing the covers back and lifting the hem of your nightgown.

Fantasy Mister Miller always says, “Tsk-tsk. Bad girl, touching yourself like a whore? Let me show you…” And then he puts his big hand under your nightgown and in real life in your bed you clench and spasm and clap a hand over your mouth to stop yourself from shouting Mister Miller’s name, his real name.

And here it is now in real life, in his bed, even better than you could have imagined, and now Mister Miller husks, “I think you’re ready, Princess.”

And he slides his big arm out from under your head, climbs on top of you and smiles down at you, his face crinkling into your favorite shape, the one where he’s happy with you, happy because you did something good. You never want to see him smile at anyone or anything else now, just you.

And he puts one big hand under the curve of your knee and pushes your legs wide and looks down at your womanhood with… reverence. That’s the word. He’s looking at that part of you like he’s in love. And then his eyes shift to your face and he says, “Ready?” in that gruff voice of his, and you nod, your eyes filling with tears because, “Here it comes, Princess.”

He takes himself in hand and touches your folds with the big, hot, part of him that you know is meant for you, and swipes it down and up and down again, spreading your wetness around.

Then he tells you, “Breathe in deep for me, Princess,” and he pushes himself into you and it’s the worst pain you’ve ever felt in your life, like a knife splitting you open from front to back in one go. And then he pulls out, his breath ragged, and he nods approvingly at you, brings one big thumb up to wipe the tears you hadn’t even realized had fallen.

And when he pushes inside you once more, you feel that clench and that spasm that you know so well, and Mister Miller closes his eyes like he’s praying, like he’s hearing angels, and you feel yourself squeeze around him three, four, five times before it fades away and suddenly you’re spent, exhausted.

Then Mister Miller breathes in again and opens his big brown eyes to take you in, and you reach one hand up to cup his jaw, that silver stubble you love so well.

He turns his head and kisses your palm, smiling at you again, “You’re so good for me, Princess. You did so good.”

But then his face changes to a frown, and you wonder briefly what you’ve done wrong, but you realize it’s his frown of concern, the same one you’ve seen a hundred times when you’ve fallen and scraped your knee, or like the time you told him a boy at school had tried to kiss you, so you’re fairly certain you’re not in trouble right now. He’s probably going to tell you something serious, that’s all.

“Now I’m gonna give you my special seed, alright? It’s just for you, Princess. Meant to make you a mama now that you’re old enough.”

Your eyebrows raise and you blink up at him. A mama, with a baby? That sounds so… so grown up, so adult.

“S’at alright with you, Princess? Can I put a baby in you?”

You think about it for a moment and then nod. You know it’s wrong, you know it… but suddenly you’ve never wanted anything more in your entire life. You want Mister Miller’s baby inside of you, you want to share that with him, that something special. So you nod vigorously and say, “Please, Mister Miller, please put a baby in me. I want it.”

And that makes him smile again, glowing at you, proud of you for speaking up and saying yes and wanting what he wants.

Mister Miller closes his eyes and pushes into you once, twice, three more times before he suddenly goes rigid and clenches, and you imagine he’s feeling something like you do when you touch yourself and it feels so good.

When he’s finished he pulls out of you and looks down at where you were joined, where you did the most special thing a girl could do for a man, and he strokes his big thumb lovingly up and down your folds again, smearing your wetness and pushing it back into you.

“Look here, girl. Sit up for me.” He holds his hand out to you and pulls you up to sitting, directing your attention down to your privates, where there’s wetness of three kinds: your own wet that you’ve played in so many times, something creamy that you must guess is Mister Miller’s seed, and a shocking smear of blood that sends your head into another spin.

Mister Miller hears you gasp and he puts a big, warm, reassuring hand on your shoulder.

“S’okay, Princess. It’s not bad, supposed to happen the first couple’a times. Just means you’re a woman now, like when you got your monthly.”

“It’s not… I’m not…?”

He smiles down at you, silver hair glinting in the late afternoon sunlight streaming through the window. “No, honey. It’s not like a big cut or anything. It’ll only happen once or twice. After that it’ll be just fine.”

You breathe out a ragged sigh and relax, trusting Mister Miller to take care of you.

“What do you say, Princess? What’d you think of your birthday surprise?”

You look up at him and try to suppress the grin that wants to spread across your face. You know you’re not supposed to act prideful or lewd or wanton, but you’re just so happy that Mister Miller gave you this gift of himself, made you a woman, wants to put a baby in you for you to love and be a mother.

“Thank you, Mister Miller,” you gush. “I love you.”

“Aw, honey.” Mister Miller cups your cheek and leans toward you, and you think he’s going to kiss your forehead, but he surprises you by pressing his mouth against yours, moving his lips around and kissing you the way you saw in that movie once, the way that the other girls at school talk about their boyfriends.

Your heart soars. He’s kissing you!

He pats your shoulder and climbs off the bed. “Go get cleaned up, Princess. Gonna be time for dinner soon.”

“Yessir.” You swing your legs off the bed and head to your shower, practically skipping all the way there.

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Later, in the kitchen, after you’ve cooked dinner and served and cleaned up, you bring a cup of strong black coffee to the table and place it at his elbow.

He smiles up at you and wraps his hand around your waist, a new kind of touch he hasn’t done before, more intimate, more grown up. It feels natural after this afternoon, like you've graduated into the kind of touching that adults do.

“Thank you, honey. You’re the best goddamn girl a man could ask for. Always my good Princess.”

You glow, and suddenly feel bold. You dip and kiss his cheek like you’ve done a hundred times before, but this time with the urge to do something special, something that you know is wrong but feels so right.

You brush your lips over his ear and whisper, “Thank you, Mister Miller.”

He coughs and clears his throat with a glower and your heart sinks. You did it wrong, you kissed him wrong, you were too bold. But you know he’ll correct you, show you where you were wrong and how to be right, how to be good for him.

“Don’t call me Mister Miller now. That’s just for our special playtime.”

You nod, understanding. Special time, special nickname. Like “sir” for when you’re in public, showing your deference to him, or “Princess,” which he only uses at home. “Mister Miller” must be a special name. Only for use at certain times, only inside of his bedroom.

He pats your hip lovingly. “When we're not in bed, you call me what you always call me, okay? Don’t want anyone to know about our special time together, do we?”

He winks, “Might make the other girls real fuckin’ jealous of you.”

You smile and nod, “Yessir. I understand. Thank you, Grandaddy.”

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#GILF joel miller #GILF joel miller x you #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x female reader #fic-cest #cw fictional incest #18 + content #18 + only #minors will be blocked

fic-cest

Jun 10, 2025

tangled roots preview (60 year old Joel Miller x f!18!reader insert)

my writing is for the girlies over 18 who love the taboo stuff. you are responsible for your own fic consumption.

luv 🎀🩷 Princess

💝

tangled roots series menu fic-cest main menu

🎀🩷🎀🩷🎀

“S’at feel good, darlin’?”

“Ohh, yeah... oh fuck–”

“You watch your fuckin’ mouth when you’re in my bed, when I’m takin’ the time to show you somethin’ special.” His big brown eyes search yours for understanding, his scowl more sad than angry.

“Yes, sir,” you mewl, tears springing to your eyes at his disappointment.

You want to be good for him, always his good girl. It’s just that sometimes the rough language you use outside the house seeps in, stays glued in your subconscious. You hear Mister Miller use it all the time, and you secretly chafe at his double standard that you’re not allowed to use swear words while you’re under his roof, when it seems like every other word out of his mouth is a ‘fuck’ or a ‘goddamn’. So you soak in it when you’re not around him, cussing up a storm with your girlfriends at school, or taking long walks out in nature just to fling four-letter words at the squirrels and the birds.

You sniffle and nod, grating out a rough, whispered, “I’m sorry, sir.”

His eyes soften and he loosens his grip, flattening his palm to pet down your sternum, stopping to cup your right breast and squeeze it affectionately. A warm smile breaks out on his face, making those wonderful crinkles appear next to his eyes, and the sun streaming in the window behind him turns his silver hair golden. He’s so beautiful.

But your favorite skin-to-skin contact has always been the rare, treasured forehead kiss. You savor the way your stomach flutters when he wraps his big hand around to cup the back of your head, leaning down to press his chapped lips to your forehead when he’s particularly proud of something you’ve done. Those are your favorite, something you know he doesn’t do to anyone else. Only you get the benefit of Mister Miller’s forehead kisses, and you feel special and awful every time. You know it’s wrong for you to inhale his spicy cologne, wrong for you to peek down his collar to ogle his salt & pepper chest hair, wronger than wrong to wish his lips would drift further south and land on yours in a very non-paternal way.

💝

full fic coming soon!!

#joel miller x female reader #joel miller x f!reader #age gap #tangled roots series #fic-cest writes

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