You're a trans boy, but your family rejects you, the only one who accepts you is your your divorced dad, so you move in with him. You’ve been living with your dad for a few weeks now. It’s been a relief, after everything with your mom and your sister. He’s the only one who ever used your chosen name, who called you his son. You finally feel like you can breathe.
Tonight, you’re already in bed, half-asleep, when the door creaks open. The hall light silhouettes him in the doorway. “Hey, kiddo,” he says softly, his voice a little thick. “Can’t sleep. Mind if I sit for a bit?” You mumble a sleepy sure, shifting over. He doesn’t just sit, though. He settles on the edge of the mattress, the weight of him dipping it. You can smell a faint hint of whiskey on his breath. His hand comes to rest on your shoulder, over the blanket.
“I’m so proud of you, you know,” he says, his thumb rubbing slow circles. “My brave boy.” His hand slides down, over your arm. It feels… heavy. Too intimate. It doesn’t stop at your elbow. His palm slides over your hip, and his fingers curl, pressing into the flesh there. Your breath hitches.
“Dad?” you whisper, confusion and a cold dread starting to pool in your stomach. “Shh,” he murmurs, his other hand coming up to brush your hair from your forehead.
His gaze is dark, intense, in the low light. “It’s okay. Daddy’s here. Daddy understands you better than anyone.” His hand on your hip slips under the hem of your t-shirt, his skin hot against yours. “I know what my boy needs.”
His hand moves with a terrible certainty, slipping under your shirt to cup your bare breast. You gasp, a jolt of something sharp and wrong shooting through you. “Dad, stop,” you choke out, your voice small and trembling. You try to push his hand away, but your own arms feel weak, leaden. He ignores your feeble protest, his thumb finding your nipple and rubbing it slowly, deliberately, until it hardens into a tight peak against his palm. You want to scream, to shove him off the bed, but a traitorous heat is pooling low in your belly. Your body is betraying you, responding to the rough familiarity of his touch even as your mind screams that this is your father.
He pulls the blanket down further, exposing more of you to the cool air and his hungry gaze. His other hand joins the first, groping and kneading your other breast, his breath coming heavier. “See?” he murmurs, his voice husky. “Your body knows. It knows who takes care of it. Who really loves you.”
A soft, pathetic whimper escapes you as arousal floods your veins, making your skin hypersensitive and your pussy clench with empty need. You hate it, you hate how wet you’re getting, but you can’t make yourself move away.
He keeps touching you, his hands rough and claiming on your breasts. You squirm, trying to pull away, but the blankets are tangled around your legs. You whisper “no” again, but it comes out as a weak, shaky breath. His fingers pinch and roll your nipples, sending sharp sparks of sensation straight to your core. You can feel yourself getting wet, a hot, shameful slickness between your thighs that you can’t control. Your breathing gets faster, each gasp hitching in your chest as he leans closer, his whiskey-scented breath hot on your neck. You know this is wrong, so wrong, but your body arches into his touch anyway, a soft moan escaping your lips before you can choke it back.
His hand slides down your stomach, dipping past the waistband of your sleep pants. His fingers find the damp fabric of your underwear, and a low, knowing chuckle rumbles in his chest. “See?” he whispers, his voice thick with triumph. “I knew you liked it. My good boy.” You whimper, trying to squeeze your thighs together, but his other hand is already on your knee, pushing your legs apart with an easy, terrifying strength. He hooks his fingers into your pants and underwear, pulling them down your hips in one rough motion. The cool air hits your wet, exposed pussy, making you shiver.
“So wet for me already,” he murmurs, his gaze fixed between your legs. He doesn’t wait. Two of his thick fingers slide through your slick folds, pressing against your entrance. You cry out, a broken sound, as he pushes them inside you in one slow, relentless stroke. Your body clenches around the intrusion, hot and tight, and he lets out a satisfied groan.
“There you go. Taking Daddy’s fingers so well.” He starts to move them, curling and scissoring inside you, the wet sounds obscenely loud in the quiet room.
He keeps fingering you, his thrusts deep and deliberate, stretching you open. Your hips jerk helplessly, your body responding to the rhythm he sets even as tears sting your eyes. He leans down, his mouth close to your ear. “You feel that? That’s how much you want this. How much you need your dad.” He adds a third finger, and the burn makes you gasp, your back arching off the bed. You’re so full, so shamefully wet, and every drag of his fingers sends another wave of unwanted pleasure crashing through you. You can hear the slick, filthy sounds of his hand working your pussy, and you know he’s watching your face, watching you come apart.
The orgasm crashes over you, a violent, shuddering wave that tightens your entire body around his thrusting fingers. You cry out, a ragged, sobbing sound, as you come helplessly on his hand. He groans, watching your face contort with pleasure, his fingers working you through the last pulses.
Before you can even catch your breath, he leans down, his mouth closing hot and wet over your nipple, sucking hard. At the same time, you feel the thick, blunt head of his cock press against your slick, used entrance. You’re still pulsing and open from your orgasm, impossibly sensitive. He pushes forward, just an inch, and you feel yourself stretching around him, a broken whimper escaping your lips.
He pushes into you slowly, the thick length of him stretching you wider than his fingers ever could. You feel every inch as he sinks deeper, a low groan rumbling from his chest. Your body is still trembling from your climax, oversensitive and tight, and the slow, relentless invasion makes you gasp. He bottoms out, his hips flush against yours, and stays there for a moment, buried to the hilt inside you. Then he begins to move. Long, deep strokes that drag his cock almost all the way out before plunging back in. The wet, slapping sound of skin on skin fills the room, mixed with your ragged breathing and his rough grunts. He keeps his mouth on your breast, sucking and biting at your nipple, sending sharp jolts of sensation straight to your core with every thrust. His hands grip your hips, holding you in place as he fucks into you with a steady, possessive rhythm. You can feel him everywhere—the heat of his body, the scratch of his stubble, the overwhelming fullness as he claims you. Tears leak from the corners of your eyes, but your hips lift to meet his, your body betraying you completely, welcoming each deep stroke.
The pleasure builds again, a tight, coiling pressure deep in your belly that you can’t fight. His cock drags against that sensitive spot inside you with every deep thrust, and your breath comes in sharp, ragged gasps. Your legs wrap around his waist on their own, pulling him deeper, and you feel the moment you start to unravel. A high, broken cry is torn from your throat as you come, your pussy clenching and fluttering around his length in hard, rhythmic pulses.
You shake beneath him, overwhelmed by the intensity. He groans, a rough, animal sound, and his thrusts become erratic, losing their rhythm. He buries himself to the hilt and holds there, his body shuddering against yours. You feel the hot, pulsing release as he cums deep inside you, his seed flooding your tight channel in thick, wet spurts. He grunts with each pulse, pressing his forehead against your shoulder, his hips grinding against yours as he empties himself completely. You can feel the warmth spreading inside you, filling you up, a claiming, possessive heat that leaves you breathless and trembling. He stays like that for a long moment, still inside you, both of you slick with sweat and utterly spent.
He holds you close afterward, his body heavy and warm on top of you. His hand strokes up and down your back in a slow, gentle caress, his touch so at odds with what just happened.
“My good boy,” he murmurs into your hair, his voice low and satisfied. “You did so well for me.” You’re trembling, overwhelmed and confused, but his praise wraps around you like a blanket. Even as you try to process it, your body betrays you again.
You feel his softening cock still buried inside you, and you can’t help the instinctive, tight squeeze of your pussy around him. It’s a helpless, pulsing clench, milking the last of his seed from him. He lets out a soft, pleased groan at the sensation, nuzzling against your neck.
“See?” he whispers, his lips brushing your skin. “You can’t even help it. You were made for this, for me.” He stays inside you, holding you there as if he never wants to let go, his gentle petting never stopping.
