I’m surprised there isn’t more vampire omo content considering blood has diuretic properties. Drinking blood makes vampire bats have to urinate a lot, it would also have the effect on humanoid vampires.
I need to barge into the room like I own it just when he's about to go take a bathroom break, slam the door open so hard he jumps a little and when he turns to face me, I see a little bit of darkness on the front of his pants. At first, I'm not sure if it's the lighting or what I hope it is, but then he turns at a different angle and the darkness is still in the exact same place.
He got so scared he peed a little.
I wonder, can I get more out of him?
Now that his bladder's tasted relief, it's not going to give up until it gets what it wants. He tries not to let me see how much worse the urge has gotten now that he's started, how he needs to keep his thighs closed just to not flood his clothes, but I'm observant. I notice.
I get all up in his personal space. Back him into the wall. Then I slam my hand just an inch from his ear. He squeezes his eyes shut, whimpers. His thighs tremble. Some more escapes his control.
I grab his chin between my thumb and index finger and force him to look at me.
"What's up? Are you scared of me?"
He's clenching with all his might, and yet he's dripping in his pants like a broken faucet. He can't fight me off or he's gonna have an accident.
I put my palm on his crotch.
He jumps at the unexpected sensation. A big leak warms my hand. His legs try to close around my fingers.
"Aww, are you gonna wet your pants?*
He doesn't say a word. His eyes are watering, his breath hitches, but he looks me dead in the eyes, tries so hard to be defiant.
I squeeze. He gasps, leaks again. Strong at first, then weaker, then just a few drops here and there. It takes him several seconds to stop himself. He's soaked by now, the wet lines reaching down to his ankles, it's even started pooling on the floor.
Cute.
I use the heel of my hand to press his bladder. Finally, he completely loses control. His piss comes out hissing, running down his legs and my hand. It drips onto the floor, adds to the puddle at his feet. He breaks eye contact. He looks up, down, left, right, anywhere except my face, his cheeks burn, his eyes water, and yet it feels so good to finally go. Are his legs shaking from relief or fear?
When he's done, I remove my hand from his dick, shake off most of the pee still on it and wipe the rest on him. And if he falls to his knees in his own puddle sobbing once I've left, well that's really not my problem anymore, is it?
short and suggestive rather than explicit. contains ddlb dynamic, corruption, and I can't tell if it counts as forcemasc. ftm affirming? vaguely.. forcemasc.. vibes..?
I promised I'd post more and then immediately got hit with a depression beam from god himself. dropping this and then dipping again lmao.
Let's imagine an older man. Dad's friend, who comes over every now and then for a few drinks or football game. He's quieter than dad. He laughs a little more gently.
Sometimes he catches a kid watching him with wide eyes from the doorway, who ducks out of view when caught. He doesn't think much of it until the kid gets a haircut. He does a double take when he first notices
"I didn't know you had a son." he mutters as he looks to the kid's father, who furrows his brow in response.
"Son? No, I don't. She just cut her hair short, is all."
As the kid's father returns to watching the TV, the man can't help but feel suspicious. He looks back towards the hallway. The little boy is peeking at him again, eyes full of frustrated tears. Although he quickly scampers away, the sight of his watery eyes is enough for the man to feel newly protective of him.
He never thought of that kid as cute until now. Short hair suits him very well.
The man visits unannounced the next day. It's just before rush hour. The boy got back from school minutes earlier, and is still wearing his coat.
"Oh, my dad's not here, sir." The boy says as he sees the older man in the doorway. "He's still at work."
"I know. I wanted to talk to you." The man smiles. He laughs as he sees the boy's wide-eyed response. "You got a new haircut. I like it."
He ruffles the boy's hair and gets a small squeak out of him. "T-Thanks. My dad said it makes me look like a guy..." the boy mumbles shyly.
"And he's right. But your father doesn't like that, does he?"
The poor boy's face falls. He can still feel the man's hand in his hair. It's keeping him too shy to start crying.
"No sir. He hates it."
"He's full of shit."
He thought the boy's eyes couldn't go any wider, but there they are, looking up from under his hand in amazement. He loves how short this boy is. He could pick him up and carry him off so easily, but that would be too forward right now.
"What, have you never heard a swear before? Come on, kid. I thought you were a twin brother of yourself when I first saw you." He chuckles, pinching the boy's cheek. "You've still got a little baby face, but that's nothing some tough love can't fix, right?"
Too stunned to speak, the boy only nods obediently. He can see the older man's gaze flicker in response, eyes narrowing slightly with approval.
He wants to see that little nod again. He wants this boy kneeling in front of him, mouth open.
"That's my boy. Tell your father I stopped by looking for him."
"But... you said.."
The older man huffs a laugh and steps closer. He rubs the boy's shoulder with a heavy, firm hand. "-said something mean about him? He doesn't need to know that. You agree with me, don't you?"
The boy is still reeling. He can barely keep up with all this approval and his cheeks feel warm. "Agree.. agree that... I look good?"
"That's right. You look very good." The man nods, squeezing the boy's shoulder lightly. His heart absolutely melts as he sees the nodding response he gets. The poor thing is so subdued, so hesitant, but clearly so happy.
He gives the kid's hair a final ruffle before stepping back. The seed is planted now. Next time, he'll be able to hug him. Maybe the time after that, he can slip his hand under the boy's shirt.
Over his shoulder, he can see the boy still standing in the doorway, leaning towards him as he leaves.
Warnings: 18+. Unprotected p-in-v. Virginity loss. Creampie. Daddy kink. Girthy, unspecified age gap. Exhibitionism if you squint. Oral (m! and f! receiving). Breeding kink. Assplay. Intercrural sex. Soft dom!Joel. DD/lg dynamics and the use of anatomical terminology to describe various body parts—don’t like, don’t read.
Note: “Lovin’, Touchin’, Squeezin’” is a song by Journey 🕺🏻
Another note: All characters involved in this story are adults. Reader is described as having grown up in isolation, without access to formal education, and as such, her understanding of the human body and sexual reproduction is limited. This is not a reflection of her intelligence or her ability to learn the topics.
Word count: 18.0k
Surely, it hurt.
It had to.
Whatever was happening in the confines of the bedroom next to yours, the woman didn’t sound like she was having fun. A sharp cry had startled you out of your sleep, only slightly muffled by the cabin’s walls, and when you were awake, you heard all of it. Everything.
“Tommy.” The voice rose, pitchy and shrill. “Pleeease!”
It sounded as if someone were begging for their life, frankly; the responding male groan was near-deafening. The quick, hollow thumps against the wall picked up, and before you could even begin to wonder at what that was from, you heard Tommy Miller’s voice rejoin in turn:
“You fuckin’ love it, don’t ya, baby?”
No, clearly, your wife is in pain.
You couldn’t believe what you were hearing with your own two ears; you and Joel had come to visit for the weekend, since the two of you lived a little ways away from Jackson and the balmy summer weather was too good not to travel. It wasn’t all that often you got to see Joel’s only living family, but whenever you did, it was fun. Tommy, his brother, and Maria really seemed to suit one another, and you relished any opportunity to be around other people. You didn’t get very much of that with Joel.
He was technically your closest, and oldest, neighbor.
Since your grandmother had passed some years back, he had taken it upon himself to care for you. At first, it’d been just a matter of stopping by every now and then to make sure you were fed, safe, and content, but that had morphed slowly over time to you moving into his place. Taking up residence in his little two-bedroom abode out in the middle of nowhere, and becoming something like a friend to him. A pet, a plaything, a ward—you weren’t totally sure what to call your relationship to Joel, seeing as though you’d never been anything to any man before.
That was one of the drawbacks to being born and raised in the remote, post-apocalyptic world as you were: pure naïveté. Not knowing one thing by way of societal norms.
You rushed over to his bed now, no hesitation stalling your limbs as you tore off his sheets in a state of panic:
“Joel!”
The man lay there, motionless. His big, broad, black-and-silver speckled chest rose up and down, again and again.
Joel always slept heavy as shit. He wore boxers and nothing more, which you were used to seeing by now.
And you felt such a singular familiarity with him after all this time that you didn’t think twice to climb into the bed, right on top of him. This was just Joel, after all.
Round, brown eyes flew open as soon as you did.
“Fuckin’ sh—” he started, voice thick with sleep.
“Joel, hurry!” you hissed. Straddling his hips, grabbing at his bare shoulders and shaking them as hard as you could. “T-Tommy’s hurtin’ Maria! We need to help.”
A low groan sounded in Joel’s throat—not entirely unlike the one that you’d heard from his brother through the wall, you thought for half a moment—and shortly, a set of hands landed on your waist. They squeezed you tight.
And, just as it seemed they were about to lift and nudge you sideways, you bore down. Insistent, and frowning.
“Just listen! Right now. Please, Joel, I-I’m serious.”
You were pleading with him now, unable to contain the fear in your tone as you clamped a hand over his mouth.
Honestly, you probably didn’t even need to do that—the room was dead quiet, save for the sounds of you and Joel’s breathing, the soft whistle of the wind, then—
“Ohhhh, fuck me! Tommy, it’s—shit!” Maria whimpered.
“You asked for it, baby. Wanted me poundin’ ya, huh?”
Tommy’s words seemed to bounce off of every surface in the room with a grating, nauseating turn. It made your eyes widen, and your palm press even tighter to Joel.
“See?! He—He’s hittin’ her! We gotta g—”
Joel groaned again. Louder, and more pointed this time.
You hadn’t realized it, but your thighs were holding pretty hard, too. Your groin was aligned perfectly with Joel’s, your weight was sinking down, and that touch was concentrated. If there had been any room to consider your current spot, you could’ve sworn you felt a…lump?
“Fuck,” Joel gritted through his teeth. Finally lifting you off him, and wincing as he did, he sat up. He met your gaze with a sharp, stern, and bewildered sort of look.
“What—” he panted, “—are ya talkin’ about, darlin’?”
“Don’t you hear it?”
“Yes. Yes, I do.”
You blinked.
“So…go!”
“What?”
“Stop ‘em.”
“From what?”
“Fightin’, Joel!”
Now, it was his turn to blink.
He waited several seconds, then continued.
“Babygirl, Tommy and Maria ain’t…ain’t havin’ no fight.”
For a while, you had only to stare back at him, confused.
The ride home was awkward.
Joel could feel it in his bones, beneath his skin, itching from within the deepest recesses of his body: that morning had changed things. For you and for him.
What he had come to suspect for the longest time—and what had only made sense, since the one, lone soul you’d known all your life until him had been your grandmother—was true. You didn’t know what sex was, or what it did.
Joel swallowed thickly, pretending not to be conscious of the warmth on his back. Your arms snug around him. Your cheek resting gently against the cotton duck fabric of his jacket while the two of you rode on horseback to get home, and a pout the size of Texas no doubt marring your pretty face. You’d been cross with him all that day.
“Venison and cornbread for supper. How ‘bout it?” He tried supplying his tone with some playful inflection, hoping to entice with the promise of your favorite meal.
Clearly, though, he would need to try harder.
You shrugged against him.
“Fine by me.”
Joel knew that tone. Could probably pinpoint with surgical precision what you were feeling before the emotion even rose to your eyes. He couldn’t see you now, but he could feel the frustration bleeding through your words. Being treated as if you were too young, too innocent, too dumb to be told this hurt, plain and simple.
He wrestled with this thought the whole way home, then trudging into the cabin that you’d been sharing for months. You strode ahead, steps brisk and decided, and you peeled off your long, light cardigan without a care in the world. You kicked off your boots and set them beside the rest of his in the mud room. Joel followed you, softly.
He set his hands on his hips after toeing off his own Luccheses, watching you and not knowing what to say.
Then you turned to face him.
The cough was both reflexive and immediate. Joel had never seen—hell, it’d been years since anybody, but this…this was even worse, more jarring than he ever…
He forced his gaze away in a blink. He coughed again.
“Sweetie,” Joel started, low. “I think your, uh—”
“Will you just tell me?” you snapped. You threw your hands up, as if sick of having had to hold your tongue this long. “Whatever was going on. With Tommy and Maria. I know you think I’m…I’m…young, or whatever, but, Joel, I am a full grown adult!” Another pause just long enough for you to gnaw at your bottom lip and cross your arms. Bad, bad move for Joel’s resolve. “Ain’t like it’s my fault I was born after outbreak and never learned.”
You were right.
Joel shouldn’t have been so narrow-minded.
Still, that didn’t change the fact that you were wearing what looked to be the most slight, translucent fucking frock of all time. Something short and sweet and swept up in a sea of white tulle: you could’ve been modeling for a wedding night lingerie specialty line, bare as you were.
He must’ve missed it under your sweater. Not turned his head to meet your eyes or your ensemble that morning before you climbed up on the horse behind him and set out. Joel knew he’d never seen this…thing once before.
Your tits practically spilled out of the top. Your arms remained crossed, and you eyed him with a wary look.
“Well?” you said.
“Well,” Joel repeated, still floundering for words. “Wh—Well, y’know, I…see, I’ve—I’ve been…‘S’always been…”
Shit.
He was tongue-tied.
More helpless than a fish trying to ride a bike.
And, like a teenager with an untimely boner growing in his jeans—even though, at his age, Joel couldn’t get bricked that quick if his life depended on it—he shuffled away. Sidestepped you in the hallway and made a beeline for the kitchen, where he could feel an odd stir start to take root in his lower half. He cursed the half-cocked mass in his pants and sincerely hoped it wouldn’t interfere with what he knew he needed to do now.
“I’ll…I’ll explain it, sweet pea. While we cook, OK?”
“Alright.” You started trailing behind him slowly.
You didn’t sound convinced. Joel wasn’t remotely disposed for the conversation awaiting him in the kitchen, or having to look you head-on while half your body was on display to him. You didn’t seem to see it.
You were as innocent and clueless as the moment you’d bat your lashes at him in the half light of the bedroom that morning, straddling his hips, and replying to his last quip by saying, ‘If they ain’t fightin’, what are they doin’?’
“Who gave you that dress, anyway?”
Joel retrieved the meat from the ice box, setting it out to let it thaw while you and him prepped the rest of the meal. Across the room, you were already grabbing some of the ingredients you’d need: flour, cornmeal, sugar, salt
“Maria,” you answered, simply. “She let me have whatever clothes of hers I wanted. ‘S’nice, ain’t it?”
“It looks like something you’d wear on your honeymoon.”
After turning to preheat the oven, Joel sidled up beside you. His gaze affixed itself to the counter through pure force of will, though in his periphery, he caught sight of the outline of your breasts. He tore open a bag of sugar.
Then you turned to him, voice rising a little:
“What’s a honeymoon?”
Joel couldn’t help it; he had to meet your eyes lifting to find his. Inside them, he saw genuine curiosity brimming.
Innocence, too.
“Just a, uh…trip that folks would take right after their wedding,” he said, before clearing his throat. “Vacation.”
“Oh.”
For a brief space of time, silence settled into the grooves and bumps of that slightly uncomfortable realization—what the world was like before it all splintered apart—and neither one of you tried to speak. You worked nimble fingers over the dry ingredients, Joel cracked eggs one by one, and together, you made relatively quick work of readying the cornbread mixture for baking. It was easy.
Stupidly, Joel thought that he might be off the hook in terms of not having to discuss the mechanics of marriage and sex to you then, when you piped up again.
“So this is what I’d be wearin’ after gettin’ hitched? Like…like Tommy and Maria did?” You licked sugar off your thumb before sliding the tray to him, and he took it.
“Yeah. I mean…”
Joel opened the oven door, and more carefully than he probably needed to do, pushed the baking dish inside it.
“…not immediately.”
When he had, you were right back beside him.
“Doin’ whatever we heard this morning, you think?”
The curiosity in your tone was unmistakable. Perhaps emboldened by the plain look of discomfort that was twisting his every feature, you could say it more freely.
Having sex, of course.
Why the hell hadn’t your grandma bothered to tell you?
“Yes,” Joel replied, stiff as anything. “That’s…part of it.”
“How much of it?”
“Well—”
“And why’d it sound like Maria was in pain?”
“Baby, that—that ain’t any real pain, I pr—”
“She was screamin’, Joel! Really hollerin’.”
Shit.
Shit, shit, shit.
He absolutely hated this.
With you pressed up beside him, eyes wide and glossy and shimmering with intrigue, his cock half-hard in his jeans and his mind thrumming with that constant, paralyzing thought—‘I promised I would keep her safe, not completely obliterate her innocence like this’—he balked. He took a step away from you and shook his head, like something had just rocked him to his core.
Your brows pinched.
“So then, what were they—”
“—can’t do this right now, sweetheart. ‘M’sorry.”
Joel’s whole chest seemed to cave with his sigh: the kind that reminded him how old he was, how naïve you were, and how wrong it would be if he gave you the wrong impression of sex. Make you afraid of it, or averse to it.
“We can go back to Jackson. Have one of them teachers in the schools explain it to you much better than I ever could.” Joel was walking to the pantry now, resealed food items cradled haphazardly in his arms. He didn’t slow.
And, before he had even gotten the chance to open the door, much to his shock and sheer, unmitigated dismay, he heard your voice again. Behind him, as defiant as ever.
“Whatever, Joel.”
Your voice was hard; he could feel the eye roll baked in. Then you stalked past him, straight for the living room.
Stomping ahead, and calling over your shoulder, you said: “If you won’t tell me, I’ll just ask some other guy to explain. Maybe the boys my age won’t be such prudes!”
It was the closest you’d ever gotten to downright bratty in your life. Joel had only to stand there, arms full of various powdered fixings and his jaw gone partly lax. He stared at your back, gaze following you as you went over to the den. You flopped onto the old and weathered sofa.
He dropped whatever he was holding then.
With something red-hot and ugly beginning to pool in his gut, mind reeling from the words you’d just spoken to him, Joel acted without thinking. Footsteps echoed.
“Darlin’.”
He wouldn’t get angry.
“Sweetheart. Sw—Hey. Look at me.”
That simply wasn’t in his nature. He loved you too much.
You turned to face him in your seat, and this time, Joel didn’t feign not to see you. Half-naked as you were, pert nipples poking through your dress and chest rising and falling in fast, shallow breaths, you looked like a dream.
So what if he couldn’t be with you how he wanted?
He could teach you, and that would be enough.
Joel tugged you back up onto your feet.
“Fine. You wanna learn about sex?”
As soon as he said it, your eyes went wider. A heat must have spread from your cheeks all the way down to your toes and strangled your tongue as it did, because all you could do was close and unclose your mouth, repeatedly.
How fast that brave, no-bullshit attitude was to disappear, Joel thought idly. He wanted to smile.
You didn’t even know what sex was, and still, as if by instinct, you knew that that word meant something.
It made you shift on your feet, toes curling.
“I, um…”
Huh.
“What?”
“It’s just…” you went on, sounding uncertain.
“Baby, if you can’t even stomach the word, I’d say we’d be better off saving this conversation for another day.”
That made you tense up again.
As if he’d just shocked you with a live wire, muscles jumping and skull surely shaking a, no, Joel, I can stomach it fine, I promise, you cut right back in.
Eyes lifting to his, bottom lip no longer snagged between your teeth, and then with your body lowering, slow, back down to take a seat on the sofa, you finally forced it out.
“Joel, I—I want you to teach me how to fuck. Really, I do.”
Well, shit.
Joel reckoned that had ‘pretty please’ beat all to hell.
Your words damn near knocked him sideways.
It was all the man could do to keep from keeling straight over and croaking on the spot—he had to get away from you, if only by a couple extra feet. He shuffled back. Stood at the center of the living room with his feet planted firmly in place, then tilted his head to you.
“And just where did you learn that word, young lady?”
Paternal condescension came too easy to him.
Joel blinked hard to keep his face in check.
You shrugged before him. Hummed back.
“Dunno. ‘S’what Maria said, right?” you replied, eyes locking with his. “Moanin’, ‘Fuck me, Tommy, pleee—’”
“That’s enough.” Joel held his hand up to stop you.
What was he going to do with you? Gaze glittering bright, lips parted, practically careening over the edge of your seat to hear the rest, while simultaneously looking terrified to learn for certain. You knew some words, but not other ones. You had an innocence and an obscenity bound up inside you at once. Joel was afraid to touch it.
“If I’m teachin’ you a thing…” he resumed, slow, stance widening where he stood and arms folding. “I mean one thing, sugar, we’re only using the clinical terms, y’hear?”
Joel scarcely had the words to describe the depth of his own emotion and what he felt toward you; he knew he’d need to keep some…distance when discussing this subject. Making his jargon dry, unappealing, and scientific seemed like the best way of doing that.
“Alright,” you said, tucking your legs underneath you.
Another beat of silence.
Another ripe, strangled breath slicing through his teeth.
“OK…” Joel went on, trying his best not to grimace. “Has anyone talked to you about the, uh…birds and the bees?”
“You mean dicks and vaginas?”
“Hey.”
Joel choked.
His hand scrubbed down his face in an almost vicious way, and he had to shield his stubbled mouth with his palm, for fear of another less-polite sound tumbling out.
Sat on the couch, you wore a faint, smug little smile.
“Sorry. Penises and vaginas,” you corrected yourself.
Again, Joel was blinking furiously, but now his index finger was lifting, too, pointing at you: ‘Thin ice, kid.’
You weren’t going to make this easy on him, clearly. Whether you were aware of the reasons why, or knew just how to wield your power over him was a separate question. Either way, Joel would need to keep moving.
So, pretending to clear a cough from his throat again, he went on. Recovering the grit to his voice, and scowling:
“Yes. Penises and vaginas. Pretty simple stuff, really.”
You raised your brows. Joel ignored it.
“Pole goes in the hole, and—”
“How’s it fit?” you cut in.
“What?”
Joel’s frown deepened. You sat straighter in your seat.
“I mean…every time I’ve seen one, it’s, um…wormy.”
Wormy?
“Wormy?” Joel returned immediately, in disbelief.
And he couldn’t contain the next, which all but launched itself off his tongue: “You’ve—You’ve seen a dick before?”
“Penis, Joel.”
“Penis.”
He sucked in a breath to try and calm himself, but the effort, evidently, was for nothing. He was near-seething.
You peered up at him.
“Just yours,” you said. A little sheepish. “Once or twice.”
Joel let the breath out. His mouth tightened.
“You’ve—” Then he stopped himself. The question was stupid; of course, you’d caught glimpses of him naked before. That was inevitable living in a house this small.
Before you could even try to apologize, he pressed on.
“OK, well, what’s…what the hell’s ‘wormy’ mean?”
“I dunno. Just, like, squishy and pink, I guess.”
“That’s—” Another brief pause. Joel had to steel himself right. “Well, hon, it doesn’t stay like that. It…It gets hard, when a man feels good. Helps him fit inside the woman.”
Not terrible.
Not perfect, but not terrible.
You perked up where you sat, and it was in that moment that Joel realized that his joints ached. His legs burned. The forearms crossed over his chest had unconsciously constricted tighter to the point that it was getting a little tough to breathe, so he released his hold. His hands fell to his sides at the same time you stood up in front of him
Damn that smile of yours.
Damn those gleaming eyes.
“Can you show me how?” you asked softly.
Your gaze trailed to his crotch, and Joel could feel it like a real, bona fide weight sinking him. It was curious. Sweet.
‘That ain’t right,’ was Joel’s first instinct, which he said.
Even faced with the stern, stormy exterior of a man no less than several decades your senior, though, you didn’t seem deterred by those words. If anything, it made the little tilt in your lips kick higher. You smiled lightly at him.
“How come?” you asked. “It’s just teachin’, Joel.”
Too easy.
Joel swallowed and shook his head.
“No. Sweetheart, teachin’s a whole other beast from…from me showin’ you what I mean. You gotta know that.”
Still, his eyes were glossing over, and a haze was settling over his mind like a mist in the sky just before the break of dawn. His limbs felt heavy, and his tongue went dry.
You were too fucking sly and sweet for your own good.
As if on cue, you drew closer to meet him where he stood. The hem of your dress shifted and swayed, barely long enough to scrape the tops of your thighs. Joel couldn’t bear to look higher, so he just stared at your legs. Scrambling like hell to come up with an excuse as to why he’d need to leave the room in less than a second, he wasn’t remotely prepared for what you ventured next.
You took the hem in your hands, and you lifted it.
Not just an inch or two but ten, easily, all the way until the fabric was touching your navel. The move exposed your entire lower half to him, and Joel found himself ogling a pair of bright, white, matching underwear.
Before he could move, you tilted your hips. As if showing him a new bump or bruise—which you often liked to do whenever you were hurt and needed attention—you said:
“Joel, look.”
He did.
He almost had to.
Old and awful and ashamed as he was, he couldn’t keep his eyes away. They were unblinking and ravenous, soaking in your form like a hunter surveying its next meal
Then you shifted on your delicate, socked feet.
“How ‘bout me? Can you show it on me?” you whispered.
Joel didn’t have the bandwidth to mince words right now
Teachin’, touchin’, lovin’, squeezin’—he had that craving.
One look between your legs and the man would’ve died on the spot if you told him. That was how needy he was.
Your fingers wavered a little when you didn’t hear a response. Joel was too busy eyeing you and trying not to drool, but the sight of you starting to lower your skirt snapped him out of it. He placed his hands on your waist.
“Wait.” Then, realizing how abrupt and sharp that sounded, he paused. He tried softening his tone a little. “Sorry. I mean. You…you want me to show ya, sweetie?”
Finally, his gaze slid up to meet yours.
You were watching him closely.
“If that’s…OK,” you said.
Well, shit.
Nothing would make him happier.
Still, fighting his base instincts, and just narrowly managing to keep his hold steady, Joel reeled it in.
Every thick, callused finger splayed across your sides was practically humming with primal energy; all the same, his love outweighed the lust. He lowered his voice to only the gentlest of tones and asked you, point-blank:
“Is that OK with you? Do you want me to teach you?”
Waves of chill bumps seemed to answer first: your skin, your eyes, your smile, every breath betraying that eager, nervous need. Then your grip moving from your dress. One hand clasping around his wrist and nudging it in.
You nodded.
You let him brush one sweaty palm across your skin.
Joel lowered without thinking. Sinking to the floor, onto his knees, felt like exactly what he needed to do, and he didn’t give a shit if it pulverized his joints beyond repair.
“Right here?” he breathed, now level with your heat.
Wooden floorboards creaked under his weight, and the air swelled thick and warm where he knelt. Sunlight streamed through the windows, bathing the space in a dreamlike sort of haze. Joel inhaled through his nose and almost pitched forward; you hummed your soft assent.
You didn’t know what you were doing then.
By what remaining, fraying thread of resolve the man possessed, Joel stopped himself before he went too far.
He blinked fast and moved his hands to your hips, just below where you were holding your dress’s hem for him.
Clinical.
Educational.
Fucking academic was what this would be.
“Anyone ever teach you about her?” Joel asked gently.
A ringing in his ears succeeded that question, louder than anything he’d ever experienced, and he looked up at you. You stared down at him, and one bat of your eyes was all it took to remind him he’d have to take this slow.
“Her?” you murmured.
“Yeah. Her.”
Joel wished his hands weren’t so big, seeing how easy it was to move his thumb: his palm glided across the slope of your tender mound, and in no time at all, he had a thick, callused pad stroking you over your panties. It traced your seam carefully—cautiously, like a single wrong move might wind up losing you to him forever—and then he searched your face. He swallowed, watching the features contort the slightest, slightest bit in yours.
Your breath hitched, and you whimpered.
You spread your thighs a little more.
“Private parts have…pronouns?”
That thumb swiped up. It grazed a tiny bud beneath cotton, and in under a second, your lips were twitching again. Your hips stirred, as if beyond your conscious control, and Joel eased off of you. He nodded his head.
“‘S’called a ‘vulva,’ baby.” Then his palm cupped it. Holding you in place, repeating: clinical, educational, academic like a broken refrain in his mind, over and over again. “This whole thing. Pronouns make it a little more personal, y’know? But can you repeat that word for me?”
“Vulva.”
The word was foreign on your tongue. You didn’t seem acquainted with the taste or the feel, and that forced a tiny line of worry between your eyebrows. Joel went on.
“Just like that, baby. Good. Reckon it’s best you learn about you before we take on any other stuff, for now.” Holding your heat like a weight in his hand, he crooked his fingers, and the pads grazed a smooth, clothed orifice. “Now what’s this called? You already said it.”
“The…um, vagina.” With a smidge more confidence, you still balked when his index and middle fingers prodded the fabric. That was all he needed for it—two tips poised above that tight, tender hole through the cotton of your underwear, and Joel could sense how acutely you felt it.
You shifted on your feet and let out a sharper noise. You clapped a hand to his shoulder and squeezed it, shortly.
“Joel.”
Then it felt like you were pulling back.
“What’s’a matter, baby? Everything alright?”
Inundated as he was with desire, Joel kept a firm grip over his self-control. His touch retracted from your heat.
“Y-Yeah. I’m fine. I just feel…”
A beat passed, and it seemed you were looking for words
“Is it normal? I feel a little…weird, and…and…”
Still searching. Joel was watching you closely, puzzled.
“Yeah, darlin’? What feels weird? Talk to me.”
At length, the internal foray ended, and you had only to clamp your other palm onto his shoulder, holding tight with both hands and letting your hem drop down again.
A sigh escaped you.
“Joel, I’m…I’m just…sticky down there.”
You said it, and at the same time, your thighs clenched.
Joel was no longer touching between your legs, but the gesture, along with your half-whispered, half-whimpered words nearly sucked him back in all over again. His head spun. His fingers were practically aching with need, wanting to tug your panties down and show you that this was a good thing, but, as before, restraint stopped him.
Instead, he nodded up at you.
With your palms pressing hard and your body positioned over him—towering, compared to his obeisant kneeling—Joel could only be sweet. Understanding. Softly coaxing.
“Yeah? Wanna show me, sweet pea?”
It took some more effort after that. Cajoling, for one thing, but also assuring you that the sticky, wet feeling you got between your thighs wasn’t something to hide but a perfectly normal, natural bodily function of yours. That it helped facilitate the act of sex, as a matter of fact.
“Means she’s happy,” Joel said, watching as you peeled your panties down—very nearly hearing the tacky sound.
Sure enough, the truth came to light. Quite literally, he was proven right with a pool of something thick and crystalline collected at the gusset of your undies; the stuff stretched in a half-dozen strings from the fabric to your drooling cunt, bared to him and pulsing with heat.
Clinical.
Educational.
Fucking academ—
“It hurts, Joel,” you said.
“Hurts?” Joel blinked once. “Where’s it—”
Suddenly, you were rubbing two fingers between your folds in a crude sort of way. Your underwear was in a puddle at your feet, and your free hand was back at the hem of your dress, lifting it slightly. Joel’s eyes widened.
“Right—Right here. It aches. Make it go away, please.”
“Baby—”
“Please, Joel. You said you would teach me, right?”
He did, of course.
He just never thought it’d include touching you half-nude
Leaning in on his knees, pretending he wasn’t decades your senior, chock-full of grays, and a man who had sworn to your grandmother that he would keep you safe. Ensuring you would be taken care of. Surely, that promise encompassed the perils of men and their darkest intentions, yet, here he was. Basking in your glow, reveling in the heat, sleek, and that fucking scent.
His lips were the first to give way.
They seemed to act of their own volition as they sank in to press a kiss between your own—lower, and wetter, but still your lips all the same—and they didn’t hesitate. They formed an ‘o’ directly over your throbbing clit and kissed.
Your stomach clenched in response. Your hips stuttered.
The hand that was clutching your dress jerked to Joel’s salt-and-pepper locks and made a fist, tight as anything.
‘Joel,’ you whined.
‘Joel,’ you pleaded.
‘Joel’ became the quietest, most plaintive refrain in a matter of seconds, with that old, lined, and weathered mouth latching onto your little nub and suckling her in.
Joel pulled off with a wet pop. He didn’t waste time.
“That’s your clitoris, sweetheart.” Hooded, hazy brown eyes drifted up to meet yours, while your legs trembled around his head. “Sensitive, ain’t she? Say ‘clit’ for me.”
Your jaw was slack.
Short, shallow gasps were working their way in and out of your lungs while it seemed you were trying to recover some semblance of propriety, but all that came out was:
“Joel…oh…oh…”
“‘Clit,’ baby. Say it back.”
Maybe that was mean. Hell, it definitely was.
Here you were, fighting to make sense of the wild, shocky feeling spiraling up from that tiny bundle of nerves, and he was making you talk your way through it. The smallest grin twitched at the corners of his lips, though he worked hard not to let it show too obviously.
He squeezed one of your thighs and forged on, soft.
“How’s about it? Got lots more ground to cover.”
You swallowed, finally blinking back at him.
“Cl—Clit. Can you kiss it again, please?”
And Joel did: to reward you, but also to contain the laughter that was no doubt about to be bubbling to the surface if he didn’t make use of that mouth of his, fast.
He kissed your clit like he’d done before, smiling against slick, sopping wet flesh and loving on it gently. He licked a ring around the hood and was about to use the tip to lift it up—to really hit your pleasure point and make you squirm—when another thought possessed him. Another step, another lesson, another far-too-tempting-to-resist spot where he might continue this campaign of erudition
“Ever heard of a thing called a ‘g-spot,’ baby?” Joel said.
You shook your head no.
With your hips tilted toward him and his head in the way, the fabric of your dress hadn’t slid down much since you’d let go, but all the same, Joel lifted a hand to grip the hem of it. He coaxed your fingers down while he did.
“Watch as you do it. I want you to put those pretty fingers to use, try and find that place. Can you do that?”
“Where?”
“Inside you.”
“But I—why?”
“Feels good, trust me.”
Your brows knit in that familiar way; Joel could fall apart with just one look at it. He didn’t press, even when your fingers fumbled down your tummy and made a pass through your legs—completely unaware of what those digits were meant to do and simply wanting to try. Perhaps you’d hoped to replicate the sensation he’d given you, too, or you wouldn’t have moved so quickly.
Swiftly slicking up your fingertips and toying, but making a face when it seemed like you couldn’t feel quite the same thing as you had before, you peered down at him.
“In here?” Your index hovered over a wet, dripping hole.
“Right there, baby. Push it in f’me if you can, alright?”
When you did, Joel had a front row seat; physically, he was no more than five or six inches away while you slid your small, trembling finger through the soaked band of muscle, but it felt like he was in you for the whole thing. Ogling the spectacle of your tight and untouched virgin cunt stretching, then hugging that little digit, before you whimpered and keened his name, was unlike anything he’d ever felt. He knelt between your legs and observed with all the outward practiced detachment of a doctor, though inside, he felt like every inch of him was on fire.
“It’s tight,” you whimpered.
“I know, honey, I kn—”
“I don’t like it.”
Right as your wrist flicked back to remove that finger, pussy stuffed too full and not in a good way, you’d evidently decided, Joel leapt to act. He didn’t even decide so much as he simply listened to your cries.
It hurts, you’d whined above him, Oh, Joel, please.
Suddenly, his thumb was rubbing your clit to dull the ache. Before your index could slide out, his own pushed in alongside it, coaxing that tight, wet ring to stretch with the heft and grit of his hand. Decades of experience preceded him, which made him confident in his words of assurance then—even when you grimaced and groaned.
“You’re OK,” Joel mumbled, nodding when you winced. “You’re alright, just stings a little bein’ stretched, huh?”
“Y-You said it would feel good,” you keened, mournful.
Clearly trying to buck that uncomfortable feeling, you moved back. You stumbled, as your ankles were still trapped within your panties, and Joel had to catch you.
You were close to the sofa; he nudged you toward it, swift enough that he didn’t need to move his hand and simply guided you onto the wide, cushioned armrest. Your feet kicked off the cotton, and in a second, you were sitting—straddling—that spot. Joel stepped even closer.
His finger sank another inch, and you looked fit to be tied
“I said, I don’t—” you started, sharp.
“—know where it is. Lemme help you.”
Joel had another half-minute, maybe. Laying sprawled out like you were, still impaled by his finger and yours, you clearly weren’t a fan of this feeling and would be shoving him off at any second. He’d have to be quick.
So, steeling himself and standing over you on the couch, he pushed in. To the knuckle. His pointer finger was big and warm and ribbed all over with little calluses, and it probably felt like a hot poker was forcing its way inside of your too-tight cunt beside your index, but Joel kept at it. Your muscles pulsed again, a tiny line or two of moisture crawling down his palm with the excess of your desire leaking out, and you grit your teeth. Your heels dug into the couch, and just when it appeared you’d had enough, he felt it. The tip of that probing digit brushed the place.
It was spongy and slick. Solid, but not without some give
Touching it made you squirm worse than anything.
Or, better might be a more accurate assessment.
“Oh, baby,” Joel said, relief flooding his tone as he saw it. “That’s the spot, ain’t it? That’s that special spot, there.”
Your reply was a light grunt when he stroked it again.
It was like you weren’t quite sure how to answer for it—your body, however, gave its resounding approbation when your walls bore down again and squeezed him.
Clearly, this wasn’t a pained hug. You wanted more.
“Remember what we call this spot, sweetheart?”
Syrup practically dripped from every syllable, and Joel didn’t refrain from leaning in. Pressing his forehead to yours, bracing his free hand against the sofa cushion behind you, the old man worked his finger back and forth. He dragged your smaller one with it, and he grinned when a hoarse little cry leapt out of your throat.
That wasn’t an answer, unfortunately.
Joel held the couch even harder and sawed his finger in and out, grazing that special place with every movement.
“C’mon, darlin’, I know you ain’t forgot it already.”
Your pussy was as full as it had ever been and making wet, squelching sounds each time that your finger and his moved through it. Clearly, your mind wasn’t firing on all cylinders, simply soaking in the sensations as you whined, moaned, and rutted your hips. Just precious.
Joel wasn’t letting you off that easy, though.
Still stroking, still petting that sensitive flesh, he went on:
“Is this what we call your…clit, honey? Is that what it is?”
Without warning, he pushed a second finger inside, and you hissed. Your own index slid out instinctively, and as if knowing the rest of it by heart, you started rubbing that sweet, pulsing, needy nub like your life depended on it.
“N-N-No, this—this is it,” you stuttered. Overcome with the wishing and waiting—wanting to show him what you’d learned, as well—you were keen. “This is my clit.”
Pleasure must’ve bloomed through your lower half when you said it, because your next words were swallowed up in a strangled moan. You tried lifting your hips instead, seeming to say to him: ‘See? I’m really learning, Joel.’
A grin sabotaged his face, and he couldn’t contain the urge; Joel leaned in and kissed your forehead. He tilted his chin to steal a glance where you were touching yourself, seeing how urgent those little circles were getting to be, and he couldn’t help but feel a sense of awe. Pride. He halted his ministrations just long enough to take a seat on the old couch and pull you into his lap.
Now cradling you, placing sporadic and comforting kisses along your hairline as he returned his fingers to your heat, Joel felt he could’ve melted between the cushions with just one whimper from your lips—that was how thoroughly you’d softened him already. He loved it.
“Very good, baby, that’s your clit.” His thumb covered yours easily and helped it draw little lemniscates over the bud, which made you squirm on top of him. You bit down on your bottom lip when he scissored his fingers inside you. Then he curled them and brushed that place again. “And what’s this, sweetie? Remember what we call her?”
Your brow furrowed.
Clearly, you were trying to think while the pleasure mounted and spiraled. You tilted your chin to him.
“It’s…It’s my g-spot, right?” you ventured softly.
“Exactly right,” Joel cooed in your ear.
As if to reward you for it, he curled his fingers and tapped that sensitive, special spot over and over again, knowing just what kind of effect it would have on you then. Your breath hitched, and your reflexes sent you lurching toward his chest. You clawed at his t-shirt.
Joel was certain he’d never seen something so goddamn endearing in his life. His smile widened, and he hugged you to him even tighter, not wanting to lose sight of you for even a second. Your legs trembled around his hand.
He nuzzled your cheek.
“That’s it. Good girl.”
Another clench.
“Daddy’s girl.”
And, as soon as he said the words, your chest heaved. Be it a breath, a whimper, a moan, your whole frame shook with the movement, and suddenly you were peering up at him through your lashes and staring, all glossy-eyed.
“Wh-What?” you stammered.
One more plunge of his fingers, and you keened. You looked bewildered, beleaguered, practically bursting at the seams and having only to meet his gaze and squeeze
You were close.
Joel could hear it.
“Daddy?” you repeated, breaths ragged.
Of course, you’d never heard that one before. Joel just nodded his head and let you bask in it—that feeling of wild curiosity. Perhaps not everything would compute.
He could teach you, but you might not get it just yet.
Seeing this look, and sensing how close you were to your climax, Joel leaned close and kissed your temple before murmuring, low: “Yeah. ‘M’not your old man, but that’s another word folks like to use sometimes. If you like it, then that’s all it’s gotta be. Our own little special thing.”
Your fingers tightened at his collar, like a wave was overtaking your body and you couldn’t control it.
Joel foresaw the question before it even arose.
“You doin’ OK, sweetheart? Feelin’ alright?”
“I—I don’t know. It kinda…sorta feels…”
“What? You got a funny feelin’, baby?”
You nodded.
His fingers had been stretching and pumping and pushing all kinds of fiery sensations inside that tiny space, feeling wet muscles contract around him—it didn’t surprise him in the least that you needed some extra time to come. You didn’t even know what it was.
“That’s an orgasm, honey. ‘S’a good thing. Real good feelin’, if you just let it build and build for a little bit lo—”
“Wanna stop,” you hiccuped. “Feels like I’m gonna pee.”
Joel had to hide a grin behind a bevy of kisses. He kept cradling you, kept fingering your soaked pussy with all the soft, practiced resolve of a man much gentler than he’d ever known himself to be. You weren’t pushing him away; he wouldn’t force you toward it. He just wanted to guide you to a path that would give you replete pleasure.
Hell, maybe he could even get you to squirt.
“You’re not gonna pee,” Joel assured you gently. “Even if you did, I wouldn’t care. You know your pleasure’s the most important thing, right? ‘S’why I’m here, baby.”
It seemed to strike you at almost the same moment it did him: this was not only for you, but about you. More than a step above simple pedagogy, Joel was trying to make sure you understood all the inner-workings of sex.
“That’s makin’ love, y’know? Takin’ somebody’s pleasure into your hands and treatin’ them right. Makin’ it…good.”
“Makin’ love,” you repeated, just like you’d done for every other term he’d taught you that day. You drew in a breath
And, at the same time that Joel’s movements slowed with his speech—fingers pumping slower, deeper, to make your insides all but strangle him with just how good it made you feel—something stirred in him, too. Hell, it was the first real movement he’d had in ages.
Decades, maybe.
Thank the stage of life that he was in, his lack of access to peri-geriatric care, or his blasted uncooperative cock, but the man hadn’t had a real, bona fide erection in a long time. He’d figured that that would help keep his urges at bay while he was teaching you these things.
Now he was almost fully hard in his jeans. You were about to finish all over his fingers, and then what?
“Daddy,” you whimpered. Your feet kicked and inadvertently brushed over the bulge in his pants. “Faster, please. I—I think that feels even better f’me.”
Joel couldn’t have you see it, or feel it, or know exactly what you were doing to him and think that you were in some way responsible for helping out with the rest. No, he wouldn’t allow that. This wasn’t about him getting off.
He slid your body back. He slotted his own, head-first, between your legs and dove in. Out of sight, he started to grind his lower half into the sofa, but only after you’d taken hold of his hair and rocked your hips into his face.
That’s it.
This is for you.
“Daddy’s gonna take real good care of her,” Joel said, as if finishing the thoughts that were brewing in his head. “You just lie back an’ close your eyes. Soak it all in, OK?”
And you did.
When he reared back and spit on your pussy, smeared it in with his fingers and panted again, just for good measure, ‘What’s the word for all this, baby? What do we call her?’, you raggedly answered. You told him that it was your vulva, and then you moaned so loudly that Joel thought it might blow his eardrums out. He rutted his denim-clad cock into the couch and kept going. Pleasure spiraled from some of the furthest recesses of his gut, and he dragged his warm, wet, silver-stubbled mouth up your slit, glistening with saliva and your own arousal.
“Smart girl,” Joel murmured appreciatively. Licking lines around your clit, before dropping a quick kiss over it. “And what’s this little button called, baby? It feel good?”
You replied by digging your heels into the couch first, head lolling back on the armrest. Then, light as anything:
“My clit. It—It feels so good when you do that, Daddy.”
“When Daddy kisses her and licks on her some?”
“Gives me that…funny feelin’ all over again.”
Joel could say the same for himself. Something tightened in his balls, right as he humped the cushion with a little more force, and then he knew it, without a shadow of a doubt—that old, worn, once-dysfunctional member of his was now engorged with blood and stiff. He could probably fuck his fist once and blow his load.
He tried to ignore it.
He pushed two fingers to the rim of your cunt, feeling tender, taut flesh bar his entry again, and he worked his way through it. Delicate as ever, your hole spread for him.
“And this?” he asked.
You told him.
He slid in deeper, and before he could even inquire after that ridged, sensitive wall of your insides, you stuttered:
“Th-That one’s my g-spot, Daddy. That’s—That’s—”
Joel sucked your throbbing clit between his lips and flicked the tip of his tongue, just as his fingers curved in.
“That feels good, Daddy, please.”
Your pussy pulsed against him; it wet his silver beard in streaks and left him groaning between your legs, dry-humping the old couch like he was an animal in heat.
He was much, much too old for you.
This was just a learning experience.
One measly orgasm and then he’d—
“Faster, faster, Daddy. P-P-Please.”
Joel pistoned his fingers and flicked his tongue and sucked mercilessly on that little nub until you squealed.
“Let it happen, baby. Come for Daddy,” he beckoned.
“Come? Where?”
“Here.”
And with that, Joel crooked his fingers one last time and made you finish on his tongue. You didn’t squirt, but your whole body convulsed, and you kicked your feet and made those pretty little whiney sounds and pulled his hair—as if you were stunned by whatever was happening to your body, your thighs clenched around his head and damn near yanked out half the grays. Joel kept licking and fingering and mumbling sweet nothings all the while
Pretty girl.
Precious girl.
Daddy’s girl—you were everything, everything to him.
Heat flooded his jeans, and he didn’t even realize it.
It took him more than a couple seconds; he’d just finished lapping up the last of your release and was trying to catch his breath, panting and blinking and savoring your taste, when that recognition dawned.
The man had reached his peak entirely untouched.
Sticky and warm, trickling down his front, it went quietly.
Joel swallowed and propped himself up on an elbow, meeting your gaze with a hot and semi-hooded stare.
He needed to clean up. He needed to get out of there.
Suddenly, you reached for him, fingers outstretched.
“Daddy.”
It sounded so sweet—still as innocent as ever.
You had no fucking idea how badly he wanted you now. How much he hated himself for even taking as much as he had. But he did, and nothing else would take it back.
He really, really needed to go.
“Are we gonna make love now?” Your smile was crooked.
Joel sat up. His mind was clear. Conscience was fucked.
He shook his head as he wiped his mouth of you.
“No. We aren’t,” he answered, pushing to stand.
He turned before you could see the spot in his jeans. Before you could protest, he hardened his voice out of necessity and, already striding from the couch, said:
“Lesson’s over. Put on your underwear, sweetheart.”
The look you gave him then could’ve broken him in two. It was raw and soft and hurt, clearly. You blinked a little faster as you sat up, dress falling back down to cover your modesty and everything the two of you had done.
“But—”
“Don’t talk back to me, neither,” Joel forged on, despising every syllable coming out of his mouth. He was already at the threshold of the room and turning away. “Whatever happened today was teachin’, remember?”
You blinked again, eyes glossier than a moment before.
You rocked back on your heels and tried to stand, but Joel was already retreating. He pursed his lips together, throat clearing and the most flimsy, pathetic veneer of paternal concern working to stabilize his tone. It failed.
“B-But, Daddy, I—I thought—”
His voice audibly cracked when he curtailed your speech.
“Ain’t nothing, honey.” He shook his head against the lie. “This was wrong. If you wanna pout and whine ‘bout it, best head into your room, ‘cause I don’t wanna hear it.”
That made your lip curl in surprise. Soft, muted fury.
You made a fist at your side as he turned on his heel.
And, though he tried moving fast—pretending to shrug off the moment and trudge his way out through the door like nothing had happened—he evidently couldn’t make it quick enough. Over his shoulder, he heard your voice.
Having just made it onto the porch and felt the warmth of the outdoors on his skin, it was as faint as anything. A slight breeze, along with the crushing weight of knowing how badly he was fucking this up, greeted him swiftly, but not before your words reached him. Joel swallowed.
That hurt just about as bad as anything he’d ever felt.
He knew he was wrong, especially hearing you sob:
“Daddy, please come back.”
Your body was abuzz from head to toe.
Anticipation was one thing, and hatred was another—both feelings seemed to be at war within you constantly.
Though, really, you didn’t hate Joel, and judging by the way things had panned out lately, you likely never could. A week had passed since your little ‘lesson’ with the man, and nothing had ever made you feel so shaken. Or lonely.
One moment being the most precious thing in a person’s eyes, only to fall from that staggering height to nothing. Joel had up and left and brushed you to the wayside, leaving you to clench your fists and kick and cry like a child throwing a fit. But you weren’t. You were a full-grown adult trying to learn what sex meant, and damn if you didn’t feel the sting of being abandoned so easily.
You wanted to hate him more than anything else.
You wished with every fiber in your being not to need a man like him, but you did. It confused you, particularly during moments like these when you’d sneak off to his bedroom in the early morning hours—he’d offered to take you fishing that day, and you’d declined. Now you were in this cabin alone, sifting through all his jackets, flannels, and chambray shirts hanging in the closet and hoping you’d locate one that smelled the most like him.
One you could get off with, maybe.
“Ow,” you murmured presently, having hit your knee on the little hickory nightstand before clambering into bed.
You slid the long-sleeve on. You shuffled forward for a pillow, then grabbed it. Following the same four or five steps you’d been replicating since That Day—seeking identical pleasure and failing spectacularly each time—you stuffed the big, bulky, feather-filled cushion between your thighs and pressed on. You let your eyes droop shut.
Good girl.
Daddy’s girl.
‘S’what you are, right? All mi—
You pivoted and gripped the footboard, bracing your knees even harder against the bed. So what if you needed to wear his shirts and reminisce on all the delicious, filthy words he’d spoken to you just days ago? It wasn’t like you were wailing for the guy’s attention.
That would have been embarrassing. Sad, and all-too predictable for a girl who had been raised without the influence of a male all her life—weepy and needy wasn’t what you hoped to emulate. You wanted to be tough and self-sufficient, just like it appeared Joel had always been.
You wanted to eat, sleep, read and write and cry yourself to sleep whenever you needed it, alone, so long as it meant you wouldn’t have to feel what you had back then, rejected by someone else. That, more than anything, made you realize how dependent you truly were.
This wasn’t working.
After five minutes humping at a pillow like your clit was on fire, you didn’t feel a thing. Well, other than defeat.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me.” You tugged Joel’s shirt tighter around you, blew out a breath, and leaned back.
Your eyes scanned the room—for what, you weren’t sure.
You’d been in here plenty of times before, whether you were cleaning or doing Joel’s laundry or whatever the case may have been, so your surroundings were familiar: old, five-drawer dresser across the way, stacks of quilts that should’ve been shelved ages ago, little trinkets here and there, a canteen hanging off the side of a ladder back chair, and then a desk, wide and shining and empty.
Finely ground specks of pine littered the surface of it.
This was where Joel did his woodworking. Off to the side, a partway-whittled bucking bronc stood, aloof.
You rose from the bed and walked to it.
Maybe—most likely—you were stupid. Joel had all but told you this to your face. Your fingers were small and helpless, and they couldn’t reach nearly close enough to where you needed them; they didn’t know what to touch.
What if you just…
Your brain didn’t get the chance to finish that thought. Your body acted first, and time sped up as soon as it did.
Before you knew it—and damn, were you so, so stupid—you had a hand on a tool. Vaguely recalling the name, some quarter-inch straight chisel or other, you held it up. Set it down. Shook your head, like this was the single dumbest idea you’d had in your life, then took it again.
You grabbed it and examined the handle briefly.
It was wooden and rounded, maybe three inches in diameter. Five inches long. You hadn’t the faintest idea as to what the appropriate size for a…substitute should be, or what the real deal even looked like, for that matter. All you knew was that man parts were hard, and probably much longer than any one of your fingers. You sat up on the woodworking stool and slid the chisel between the tails of Joel’s worn, buttoned shirt.
You were wet. That was the byproduct of thinking of him and humping a pillow mercilessly, plus brushing your fingers through your folds a few times that morning.
But you were tight, too. As if trying to stick your finger through a concrete wall, your walls wouldn’t budge an inch. If anything, the more you tried it, the more your body started clamming up and shutting anything out. You held the tool upright in your fist, tried sinking down, and, in a too-quick move, damn near slip-n-slided your silly, virginal rear end off the chair and onto the floor. You clamped your legs together and let out a wretched sigh.
“Just…go…inside,” you pleaded helplessly. Missing Joel’s thick, callused fingers and wishing he wasn’t such a dick, you tried thinking of him. Attempted imagining his voice.
“Hey, sweetheart?”
Then the bedroom door flew open.
Your hand released, and immediately, you jumped in place. Out of habit, your palms slammed on the table, like, I have nothing to hide, and you made a pass for the half-finished horse figurine. You grabbed it thoughtlessly.
Right as you flipped the thing upside down, pretending to study the base and looking for anything to fix your gaze on, Joel walked in. His footfalls echoed behind you.
A light touch grazed the nape of your neck.
“Hi, baby.”
“Hi, Daddy.”
It slid out without you thinking, like that was natural.
You tried covering it up as quick as you could anyhow.
Turning to face him, chisel still trapped between your thighs, and wearing nothing but the shirt on your back which also happened to be his, you held your arms out.
For the first time in a week, you smiled at him.
Joel hugged you after you set his latest creation down, and you could feel how surprised he was in that embrace. You hadn’t gone near him in days, and the last things you’d said to him, apart from, ‘No, thanks’ when he’d asked you to tag along on his fishing trip that morning, had been, ‘Whatever’ and ‘Leave me alone.’
You were bratty and full of anger. Who could blame you?
Now you were back to being his pet, or at least behaving like it. Joel seemed to heave the smallest sigh of relief as he stroked your head, kissed the crown of it, and rubbed your back. Told you all about the trout that he’d caught and the bear tracks he found, the sights he wished you’d been there to see and the flowers that he picked for you.
“Sittin’ in a jug in the kitchen if you wanna see ‘em,” Joel said, eyes glittering as he stroked your cheek. He really did seem to miss touching. “Lupines, just like you like.”
You tilted your face away from his fingers, smile tight.
“Thank you, Joel. I appreciate that.”
And, although the words, along with the slight movement away from his touch, were likely more than enough to clue him into the fact that you were still cagey—maybe turn a weaker man away from you, discouraged—Joel just stood straighter. Hooked his thumbs through his belt loops and surveyed the table out in front of you.
“I’ll clean the fish. You sit back, sniff them pretty flowers I picked ya, and afterward, I’ll show you how to whittle. How’s that sound?” The man wore an easy look. Underneath several decades of wrinkles, you could make out an expression that was lighthearted and jovial still.
You had a wood chisel about one inch shy of your pussy.
With that in mind, you shook your head and pressed on:
“I wanna try learnin’ on my own first. That’s what I’ve been doing, sittin’ here and admiring your handiwork.”
Lie.
“Get started in the kitchen, and I’ll be out in a little bit. Wanna try the, um…push-cut technique I read about.”
Whatever that fucking means.
You’d heard Joel mention it maybe once.
In reality, you simply needed an excuse to get him out of your hair so he wouldn’t notice that you weren’t wearing pants underneath that oversized long-sleeve shirt of his.
“Well, shoot, I can show you that right now, sweetie.”
Before you could protest his kindness, Joel bent over you, over the table, and reached for a coffee can full of loose materials. He took what seemed like a regular knife
If looks could kill, the man would’ve dropped on the spot.
Your body sagged a little in your seat, and you crossed your thighs tighter to make sure that the tiny metal-and-wood gadget in between them wouldn’t budge an inch.
Joel held his project up to the light.
“See…whatever you do, you gotta keep a real tight grip on the base. Like this.” He demonstrated by holding the flared bottom of the woodblock. “Wrist is always steady.”
Just shoot you in the head.
Wondering if tetanus might not be a legitimate concern in the event that the rusted chisel nicked your skin, you sat in stiffened silence. You listened to Joel wax poetic on finding the grain, saw how invested he was in sharing all the things he knew about his beloved hobby, and felt his palm fall next to yours on the table. He nudged you playfully, and the warmth of that touch made it hard not to remember. Just a week ago, the two of you together.
Then nothing.
‘This was wrong.’
“Wanna try it out yourself?”
Joel was still standing over you, still smiling, and the look on his face as he held out that mini cottonwood figurine made you want to say yes. You lifted your hand to take it.
Then Joel glanced down, grin stretching wider still.
“Gonna wanna use the quarter-inch straight chisel, hon. Why don’t you take that out from in between your legs and hand it over to me?” he pressed. He didn’t blink.
For a second, your world stood still.
Your breath hitched in your throat.
Meanwhile, Joel’s was flowing easy. He extended his free hand out to you, crooking his fingers in a ‘give it’ motion.
You didn’t think—probably couldn’t have done it anyway. Your eyes were glazed, and your heart was thrumming at at least a hundred beats per minute while you unstuck your legs from the seat. Numbly, you parted your thighs.
You pried the little chisel out of place and held it, shaky.
Joel’s expression above you was bafflingly calm. Like this was an everyday occurrence, he just took the tool that you’d retrieved for him, and then he turned it in his hands. Gave you a once-over that seemed curious.
Amused, even.
“I’m sorry,” you spit out. “It’s…It’s gross, I know. I’m—”
“—not mad at you, darlin’. Ain’t a thing to be sorry for.”
Joel shook his head, and in that low, rasping drawl, you sensed more than just an effort to console. His words were slow, like he was spoon-feeding you honey, and affection bled through every note. He focused on you.
His expression softened even more, if that were possible.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry, darlin’. This is my fault.”
You stood.
You didn’t wait for him to tell you not to go, and you moved to leave. More than halfway across the room, you only stopped when he stepped in front of you, hands out.
Pleading with you gently.
“Baby—”
“Stop calling me that!” you snapped, all rancor and heat. “Quit callin’ me sweetheart, and honey, and darlin’, and whatever other name you think’ll make this all OK again.”
You could barely think having him this close to you, but you went on anyway: “Wouldn’t hear one word of that when you left me alone last week. We did what we did, and then you made me feel like I did something wrong!”
Joel’s expression splintered on hearing that. Above you, it was clear that there was a pain behind it—he wanted to reach out and touch you—but he had to control himself. Instead, he swallowed the big lump and shook his head.
“Wasn’t nothin’…nothin’ wrong that you did,” he croaked.
“Was it?” you said, voice cracking in the same way. “Because you haven’t been able to look at me all week, and every time it feels like we might talk, you just leave.”
“‘Cause I was in the wrong. I shouldn’t have done any of those things and…and stolen your innocence from you.”
“But I asked you to!”
“Don’t make no difference. ‘M’too old, and I shouldn’t—”
“—leave me to feel like I’m an idiot!”
“You’re not—”
“Like I’m broken and useless and stupid.”
You probably could’ve talked until you were blue in the face, and Joel’s expression only would’ve grown more distraught. He ran a hand through curls of black and gray and seemed to be making a concerted effort not to let his fingers shake as he did. He faltered in front of you.
He felt for his breast pocket, brows bunching together.
“Baby, you gotta…” He stopped himself shortly. Swallowed like something got stuck in his throat. “Believe me, ain’t none of that true. Wasn’t nothin’ you did—and you shouldn’t feel like you need to be usin’ my woodworking tools, neither…Should be somethin’…real.”
You couldn’t read his expression at the last.
Still, you knew what you hoped it meant.
“So show me,” you said. “Teach me.”
Your voice was weak. His lowered.
“You know why I can’t do that.”
Every spot, scar, and wrinkle gracing those weathered, middle-aged features seemed to harden at once. He wore a stern look, like a father’s, and didn’t budge when you reached out to touch. Just lifted a hand to his chest.
And, sliding something small out of his breast pocket:
“I stopped into town. Got you this.”
A little hand-held mirror.
You took it.
What for?
And you asked him that.
Watched Joel shift from foot to foot as you held it up.
The look in his eyes should have been answer enough. They told you, without prevarication, what this mirror was for. It was up to you to make sense of it yourself.
You took a seat on the bed.
Joel’s bed, big, broad, and soft as a cloud, made for the perfect space to do this. You didn’t have to think about it.
“Like this?” you asked him.
Joel stiffened where he stood. The moment you leaned back and set your heels apart on the bed—facing him directly, with nothing but his shirttails keeping you covered then—he scrubbed a hand down his beard.
He stared no lower than your collarbone.
You sat the mirror between your legs.
“Not here,” Joel said, jaw clenched.
The glass was rounded with a handle.
Perfect for holding it an inch away from—
“Baby,” Joel cut in, a little more choked. “I meant alone.”
“Then go.”
You were tired of feeling spineless—something naïve and meek and incapable of doing things on her own. Guilty as Joel may have felt, it didn’t change the fact that you had needs, same as him. If he didn’t want to see this, so be it.
You lifted the ends of your shirt to take a look at yourself.
The mirror was propped up on the comforter, affording you a near-perfect view of what had made you curious.
She was pretty. Plush. Simple.
You’d never gotten a glimpse at her from an angle like this, but with one look, you realized why the female form had held so many captive for as long as the human race existed. You had power—real, tangible power—inside it.
Joel’s mind seemed to mirror your every thought to a T.
His gaze had tripped from your neck to your shoulders, down your stomach and toward your center. Once it landed on open, dripping folds, it was like they froze him.
Rooting the stubborn, stern, frowning old man into place, your pussy worked like a spell. That knowledge alone was enough to send your muscles pulsing for him.
For yourself, you corrected.
Your pleasure came first.
“Baby…” Joel trailed off.
He stared, and he sulked, right as your middle and ring fingers teased a line up your aching slit. You were so wet that the most featherlight of touches got them soaked.
Joel swallowed again, bracing both hands on his hips.
“Darlin’—”
“What did I say about names, Daddy?” you cut in. You teased him with the D-word at the same time you found your clit, and a ripple of pleasure pulsed through you. “Don’t talk sweet if you’re not gonna treat me like it.”
You surprised yourself with just how steady you spoke. Similarly, Joel seemed to be stunned himself. He took a step forward so that he’d be stood at the foot of the bed.
“‘M’always sweet on you,” he mumbled. “…ain’t I?”
“Maybe when you feel like it,” you countered.
You made a messy circle with your fingers.
Then another, and another, and another. Sensations rose sharp and hot, further heightened by eyes on your body.
“When you need it,” Joel rebutted once more.
His voice was stern. Underneath it, though, a tortured man was trying to claw his way out. Fighting for control.
Losing the battle momentarily, he leaned in.
Hands still on his hips, eyes still glued between your legs, in an act that you would’ve deemed crude were it done just about anywhere else, Joel bent forward and spit.
A glob of saliva landed squarely between your fingers, almost too perfect for you to believe after you’d seen it.
But then you felt it: warm moisture mixing with yours, motions circling faster and faster around that little bud, Joel’s gaze growing even more intent as he watched you.
There was a frown on his face, but he was crumbling.
“Want Daddy to be sweet on you, huh? Is that it?”
The answer he received came in the form of your fingers sliding between your desperate, clenching, needy walls.
One inch.
One measly inch, and then they stopped.
That was all you could fit inside. You whimpered, shrill.
“Daddy, ‘s’too tight. Can’t go any deeper.”
“An’ what did I teach you ‘bout squeezin’? ‘Bout keepin’ her nice an’ wet so the stretch ain’t so painful goin’ in?”
That line of questioning was pointless, clearly.
You were drenched. Your legs were spread, revealing a wet, drooling pussy practically soaking straight through his comforter. The fingers you’d tried to push in wriggled
Joel grabbed the mirror.
“What’s this for?”
With your fingertips otherwise occupied, the man was free to thumb at your clit while holding the mirror to it. Your hips bucked instinctively, and it was like you could hear the arousal trickling out of you. Joel’s eyes slid up.
“Well?”
So this was a review, apparently.
You babbled, “My clit’s for—for makin’ me feel good.”
“An’ where else can you do that?”
“Here.”
Again, your fingers tried to slide in to locate your g-spot, but the effort was fruitless. Your hole was as tight as anything, and you simply didn’t have the grit to get it in.
“Here?”
So Joel did it for you.
With one thick, sure finger, he split your digits apart and entered your pussy pushing in between them. Languidly.
He held the mirror with more force, sawing the finger of his other hand back and forth to coax you open. To no one’s surprise, it was an easier go. Though one of Joel’s was almost as thick as the two of your own, this stretch was good. The pleasure it elicited made your jaw slacken.
And, just as a gasp left your lips, Joel put the mirror down. He reached for the back of your neck and, angling your chin to your chest, made you watch your reflection.
With the mirror resting between your legs, you had a front row seat to see it all: Joel’s finger dragging in and out, a tiny, gaping ‘o’ in its wake, your arousal trailing it.
He’d done this before, but it was your first time watching
You loved it.
You loved how lewd it looked with this big, coarse, liver-spotted hand flexing back and forth, making a finger disappear and reappear outside your pussy over and over again. You relished the sight of your juices trickling down his palm and wrist. You adored the grip at the nape of your neck, how Joel kneeled into the bed and lowered his mouth beside your ear, telling you the filthiest of things while he fingered you. ‘Missed her Daddy, didn’t she?’ and ‘That’s it, open f’me’ made you dizziest.
Then Joel told you to strip down.
Your fingers trembled with the buttons of your shirt—luckily, you’d only done three or four—and you got it off. You shrugged the thing behind you while Joel added a second finger, and you spread your thighs even wider.
It was a tight fit without his tongue to help. Whimpering and whining and murmuring, ‘Daddy, please,’ you made the sting evident, and that was when he started petting your g-spot. At the same time, to your surprise, Joel leaned down and took one of your nipples in his mouth.
The pleasure together was mind-numbing. Joel licked and sucked while his fingers drove in relentlessly; his tongue lapped over that hard, pebbled flesh and smeared the skin all over with saliva. He panted.
“This is…another spot,” he managed raggedly.
Another lick. Another loud, wet pop of his lips.
Your pussy clenched so tight around his fingers you feared you might cut off the circulation, and you moaned
Erogenous zones, Joel muttered against you.
And what a gift it was to be told—shown—where to find your pleasure. To have the doors thrown open wide and nudged inside that special, private place with the help of someone else. Perhaps the act wasn’t so much a loss of control on Joel’s part, but simply that: giving. You hoped he didn’t feel guilty again, and could enjoy this with you.
A minute later, you were watching yourself come undone
Trembling, fluttering, pulsing around Joel’s fingers while he sucked your nipple between his teeth, like he was feasting on you, you were inundated with ecstasy.
A shrill, pleasured shriek starved you breathless. Spit leaked and dribbled down your chin. The sight of your pussy getting stuffed with Joel’s fingers, at the same time he practically tongue-bathed your chest within an inch of his life, drove you wild beyond all understanding.
You pawed at him the second that your orgasm receded.
“M-More, Daddy,” you whimpered, greedy. “Please.”
No making sense of it then: you were desperate.
Beside you, Joel was sucking in deep, shuddering breaths and blinking furiously, as if trying to clear his field of vision or shake his head of some ugly thought.
You touched his chest, and he lurched backward.
He was doing it again.
“Joel—” you tried his name, gentle.
“I—I can’t.” He shook his head. “We gotta stop.”
“But you don’t wanna. You’re just sayin’ that now.”
You were out of breath, panting on the bed, and you realized then with some embarrassment that you were completely naked. Joel was clothed. He started to stand.
The old man had a look on his strained, weathered face like he’d witnessed fifteen wars firsthand. He braced a hand against a bedpost, clenching his jaw, and when your hand reached out to touch him again, he balked.
Groaned.
You must’ve nicked him someplace painful, inadvertently
Glancing down, you saw your hand atop a denim mound.
That hadn’t been your intention. You’d meant to grab at his belt loops and pull him close, help him see that he wouldn’t be doing you wrong, but your palm had landed on his crotch instead. You weren’t sure what this meant, but you couldn’t help but recall the noise he’d made when you straddled him early that morning at Tommy’s place. It sounded eerily familiar—and you really hoped you hadn’t fucked things up and hurt Joel in some way.
“I’m sorry!” you squeaked, yanking your hand back. “I’m— I— I didn’t mean to, I promise. Did I hurt you, Daddy?”
“Go—” Joel swallowed. Turned. “Go to your room, baby.”
Your heart sank.
You’d run him off again.
How many times would it take for this to be enough? When would you not be messing things up so pitifully?
You sniffled at the same time Joel took a step away.
His back was facing you, and his gait was unsteady.
Just as you started to slide off the bed, about to scamper off naked and humiliated, you stopped.
Joel halted where he stood, torso folding in slightly.
“Daddy!” you cried.
Before you knew it, you were in front of him. Hugging him. Trying to fit your arms around that thick, sturdy waist and babbling incoherently, something to the effect of, ‘Are you alright?’ and, ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!’
Something poked your stomach.
The reason that you weren’t able to fit your wrists around his back, you swiftly realized, was that something was standing at a perpendicular angle from Joel’s lower half.
You pulled back. You stared.
Joel was already hastening to shove the appendage away, but you saw it, clear as day: all of that was him.
He must’ve tugged it out of his jeans in the split-second that he’d been turned, hissing through his teeth and saying some words you were half-certain you weren’t allowed to repeat. Now Joel was fisting the thing, all thick and angry and pink, like it were something bad.
For some reason, the sight made your mouth water.
“Daddy?” And it was more a breath than a question.
Joel’s expression hardened, same as it had earlier—only this time, there was a tinge of pain behind it. He grunted.
“Darlin’,” he said, stern. “This is a grown man problem. Don’t want you havin’ to deal with none of it f’me, OK?”
“But I’m grown, too.”
You said it without thinking.
It was like a primal drive cut in, and your mind spun.
Your fingers trembled by your sides, and when you stole a look at Joel, you saw him eyeing you steadily. Chest rising and falling in shallow breaths and teeth grinding.
“Sweetheart—” he started to warn.
“Can I touch him? Just…just a little.”
Your voice was soft as you asked him.
Your movements were slow as you approached—you didn’t touch until Joel had breathed a fierce sound through his nose and jerked his chin once. Assent.
“One touch an’ you’re done. Y’hear that, honey?”
It was as if he were actively trying to deter you.
And it wouldn’t work—you were reaching out.
Your fingers curled around flesh that was hard and warm, and intrigue blossomed from the tips of your toes to the lips that wanted to grin at the feeling. Your eyes peered down, and you saw it, plain as anything: this…thing in your grip was dense. Long. Veiny. Flushed. And rigid.
It amazed you just how big the flesh could swell, and how hard it had gone underneath your touch. Holding him like you might a length of rope, you couldn’t even reach your middle finger to your thumb—that was how thick he was. You probably should’ve been frightened by the size, but instead, you found yourself admiring him. Ogling one small, shiny pearl of moisture sitting atop the rounded end and feeling your mouth start to water again.
Joel let out another rumbling sound.
He pried you off by your wrist.
“There. You touched ‘im.”
“Daddy’s…penis, right?”
You knew that he’d taught you the word before already; you just liked the way his pupils dilated when you said it.
And, sure enough, Joel’s irises were swallowed up.
His throat bobbed. He put a hand on his zipper.
“Yeah. Now Daddy needs to take care of ‘im.”
He took a load off in the easy chair behind him, collapsing with a sigh. You didn’t follow at first.
You just watched, enrapt, while Joel planted his feet wide on the floor and fisted his length, eyeing you close.
A grown man’s problem.
Not yours. Not now.
“Can’t even stay hard,” Joel said suddenly. Humorless. “Takes me more’n an hour on a good day. That’s why I say it’s a problem for me, not a little thing like yourself.”
That made you bristle.
You stepped closer. “‘Little thing’?”
“You know what I mean. Don’t got nothin’ to do with your bein’ a full adult—which you are—but your experience. Years you got under your belt.” And in a semi-ironic gesture, Joel hooked a thumb through a denim loop and tugged his jeans lower, exposing more of himself to you.
Spit burned in your throat going down. It was the most infuriating thing; knowing your body was just as good and ready as his, but because Joel deemed you little…
You walked to where he was and got on your knees. Kneeling, you saw the man tense and sit up taller.
“That wasn’t no invitation, sweetheart—”
“I want you to treat me like I’m grown.”
And really, that was all you could say.
No amount of pleading eyes or pawing, needy hands, fingers curling into fists and demanding in a shrill voice, ‘Treat me as an equal, Joel’ would ever accomplish what you managed with the uttering of those nine little words.
For the first time, Joel looked like he understood.
Leaning forward, squeezing the base of his length in one hand and cupping your face with the other, he hummed.
“That what you want?” Thumbing at your cheek.
You nodded. You softened under that touch.
“C’mere, baby.”
C’mere.
Come to daddy.
The next thing you felt was a set of lips on yours; Joel kissed you gently. His mouth was warm and soft and tender beyond all comprehension, drawing you to him and tasting you by turns. Heat fluttered low in your belly, and before the rest of your body could even fully respond to it, he was pulling back. His lips shone, red and swollen.
Smiling.
“‘S’what I wanted to do this whole time,” he murmured, sounding a little bit sheepish as he said it. “Should’ve been the first thing I did—that’s how real folks do it.”
Frankly, you were too light-headed to reply.
You nodded airily, jaw hanging slack.
“Now where’s my sweet girl?”
That you could answer without words. So you did.
Letting Joel capture your lips again, setting your hands on either one of his denim-clad thighs and rising off your heels. Kissing him, and feeling the vibrations of a groan.
Hearing him stroke himself faster, then pulling from him.
Gaping.
“Y’know what made him so hard, baby?” Joel asked you, expression going a bit more lax while he rubbed himself. Evidently, whatever he was doing felt good. “Tell Daddy.”
So he was still in teaching mode.
Your spit was practically leaking out in strings at either side of your mouth, but you managed to steel yourself.
“A-Arousal,” you stammered. Swallowing. “Your penis gets big whenever you’re aroused, uh, seein’ something.”
“And what did Daddy see?”
Your face heated.
“Well…”
Joel drew closer, eyes bright and glistening.
“You can tell me, darlin’.”
Another beat.
“Me?”
Very good, baby seemed to shine in every blink of that honeyed gaze, and Joel bent forward to kiss the tip of your nose, then your cheek. You preened under his touch.
“That’s right. You made Daddy so hard,” he murmured.
Trapped between wanting to curl up on Joel’s lap and soak in all his praise and actually hoping to learn another lesson, you let him take the lead. You tilted your chin with the beckoning of his forefinger and thumb, and you squeezed his legs harder, toes curling underneath you.
In his fist, Joel’s length was ruddy-looking and flushed. The little bead of liquid at the tip had grown even bigger, but the sight was fleeting. At the next possible opening, Joel slid his palm up and over that end and stroked it rapidly. He smeared the moisture over his dick and, peering down at you with an almost curious look, widened the spread of his legs. He shifted closer.
“I’m an old man,” he said, a little deflated. Shaking his length near your face. “He don’t…stay hard for very long.”
You swallowed.
You watched Joel continue to pump himself, but it was clear those motions were slowing. His member was beginning to soften in his hold, sagging at the tip.
“Daddy…” you whined. You didn’t like to see him sad.
“Couple kisses from your pretty lips might wake ‘im up, though. Could ya…Could ya do that f’me, hon? Kiss ‘im?”
You didn’t think twice—you treated it just like you did with his mouth before. You bent down and kissed him right on the thick, glistening head, all round and pink.
Joel groaned.
He cursed again.
“That’s it, baby,” he praised you, voice strained.
You were starting to get the sense that certain grunts of pain—or what sounded like them to your ears—were really more bound up in pleasure. Because of this, you went on, quietly, ‘That feel OK, Daddy? That…better?’
“Ten times better,” Joel hissed through his teeth. Releasing his hold on your face to grip the armrest. “That—That’s what Daddy likes. Little game of lollipop, huh?”
You cocked a brow at him.
Joel chuckled, “‘S’what it’s like, right? Lickin’ a lollipop.”
Hearing that, you couldn’t keep your lips from twitching.
Okay. Lollipop.
That made it more fun.
When Joel held his big, still partly flaccid length out to you again, you acted even quicker. You kissed his tip, and then, not needing to map it out, you pressed your lips to the side, the base, someplace near the thatch of black of gray hair by his tummy, peppering pecks. It was a game.
And your old man seemed to be enjoying it thoroughly, as his hips jerked with every other movement of your mouth. You stuck out your tongue and licked a stripe, and you heard a low, prolonged growl peel out of him.
“That’s it, sweetheart. That’s a good fuckin’ girl.”
You licked the warm, gummy flesh again and relished the taste. That texture, frustrating as it may have been for Joel, was tantalizing all the same. You reached up and replaced Joel’s hand with yours, and strangely, you loved the feel of his dick all soft and wormy beneath your fist.
Your old man.
You peered up and met with scars, slightly sagging skin, silver-flecked hairs, a wide, bushy trail that spanned all the way to his navel over a heaping mound of muscle and fat. Joel was thick, and he showed his years through every inch of his body. Words couldn’t begin to describe how much you loved that, and how feral it made you feel.
Parting your lips, about to stick out your tongue to give him another long, wet, and tender lick, Joel stopped you.
He twitched in your palm.
“Baby, how ‘bout you put Daddy’s penis in your mouth?”
He said it so soft—so ragged and broken and wanting, by the sound of it—that you almost froze on the spot. Spit smeared your lips and down your chin, falling in little droplets onto his jeans every now and then, and your mouth hovered over the head of him. Your eyes rounded.
“Like…Like this?” you stammered. Lowering.
You took his tip between your lips; it started out with a kiss, just suckling the edge, but then, swiftly, your mouth opened up around him and stretched. Your jaw ached to accommodate his girth, and with just one inch, you felt the sting of what seemed like ten. You gagged, not used to that sensation, and your head jerked back by instinct.
You expected Joel to be put off—irritated, even.
But when you turned a coy look his way, you were surprised to find his eyes heavy-lidded and glazed. Expression as limp as ever—his member stirring stiffer near your lips and between your fingers, simultaneously—he watched you. He nodded. He sucked in half a breath
And when he spoke again, it was like he really was in pain
“Honey…” Dick swelling nearly to full-size in your fist. Hand moving from the armrest to lay flat on the crown of your head, a little shaky. “Darlin’, I’m—I’m— I can’t last.”
You were about to question that, confused as to how one little suck of your mouth could make him so squirmish all of a sudden, but then Joel’s other hand was moving, too.
This one reached lower.
It shoved his pants and boxers down, almost to the point of the fabric pushing past his thighs, and then you saw it.
More squishy stuff.
It wasn’t…part of Joel’s dick per se but rather sat at the base. Hairy and round and plush in a funny-looking duo.
“Y’know what’s in there, baby?” Joel murmured.
You had no idea. You said as much in a shrug.
That made Joel stiffen more, teeth flashing.
A soft chuckle, “Guess we never got to that part, huh?”
For a second, you were puzzled. In the next, you were being lifted to your feet. You might’ve stumbled, except Joel picked you up and carried you all the way to the bed.
You landed with a soft thud and saw Joel undressing before you’d even regained your bearings. As with most things he did, the man was relatively slow-moving and careful, but there was a grit and a resolve just the same.
He unbuttoned his flannel shirt and didn’t unglue his gaze from you once. He kicked off his boots, toed off his socks, and when he got to his boxers and jeans, he put a hand on one of the closest bedposts and paused, briefly.
“Baby.”
You were lying sprawled out over the bedspread, naked, with Joel standing off to the side, eyes as ravenous and wild as you had ever seen them. At the same time, it looked like the man had just swallowed a cup of nails.
He leaned closer, and you did the same, crawling over.
“Yeah? What is it, Da—”
“We don’t gotta do nothin’ you don’t wanna do, OK?” Joel cut in over you. Cupping your cheek in one hand. “Hell, we can stop this right now. Save your—your, uh, first time for somebody a little more suited to you in—”
Now it was your turn to interject, eyes rolling at him.
“If you say ‘age’ one more goddamn time, Joel…”
And it made you giggle, partly because you weren’t often in the habit of cussing, but also because of the look that was suffusing Joel’s whole face as you said it: the guilt.
You could tell that it was still tearing him up, knowing how that wide, yawning chasm of decades wedged between you two wouldn’t close no matter what he did. Fingers gripping the bedpost like a vise, eyes studying you by turns, and his underwear and pants all but bursting around the strain of his dick, he looked…
“—scared,” you finished presently. Tugging on his jeans. “Isn’t it my job to be freaking out? This thing’s colossal.”
You’d helped him strip completely nude, watching him kick off the fabric at his feet and climb into bed beside you, and there was a granule of truth to what you said.
What were you going to do with it? Would it even fit?
Then Joel was on top; fear dissolved into laughter.
“Hey!” you hissed around short, gasping shrieks.
“That’s a big word,” Joel mused, barely having to move a muscle against your writhing and squirming. “‘Colossal.’”
“You’ve got a big dick.”
“Baby.”
“Sorry. Penis, I mean.”
Above you, Joel had only to shake his head and scrunch his nose—with his length hard and bobbing between your bodies, there was certainly no sense in denying it.
Still pinning you with his weight, he slid you both up the mattress. He nudged your head onto a pillow. Once comfortable, safe, and secure, and only then, did you feel him start to shift. You glanced between your legs.
His shaft was heavy. It stretched all the way from your pubic bone to your belly button and then well past it by an inch or three-and-a-half. Your presence was like a pebble beside a pillar; this walking, talking wall of fur and muscle couldn’t be outstripped by anything, it seemed.
Joel stroked your cheek with his knuckles, at the same time watching moisture from that tip wet your tummy.
“Y’know…” he trailed off, low. “Y’know how this goes?”
You did, sort of.
Your brain flashed back to the noises stifled behind cabin walls; Joel’s fingers plunging in and out of you; tongue dragging circles, telling you it was best to be wet and stretched, to make sure there was plenty of room for it.
Not a quarter-inch straight chisel, a finger, or a tongue.
Not even just the tip.
“All of it goes in?” you asked him, gaze flickering up.
“All of it.”
Joel’s hips canted once forward, then once going back.
Then again, in a sawing motion, as if to show you.
“Daddy goes in…” Another undulation. “…an’ out.”
Over the course of all your time observing Joel, you’d come to realize that the man reverted to modes of teaching when he was worried; concealing his nerves became a game part-detachment, part-pragmatism.
You saw it now as he shifted his hips in demonstration, simulating sex with his length dragging back and forth across your belly. His brow knit, and he held your gaze.
“‘Fore he can…‘fore he can move, or anything, Daddy’s gotta stretch your little hole out for him. Get her ready.”
“Like you did with your fingers?” you supplied helpfully.
Joel winced.
“Well, a—a little like that.” And he paused to consider his words. “Except, uh…Daddy’s gonna stretch you a bit bigger. Tougher. When he goes in for the first time, he might…well, there’s this stretch of skin he might…rip.”
“Rip?” You raised your head off of the pillow, voice taut.
Joel tried talking you down, both literally and figuratively.
“Ain’t that bad, I-I don’t think. You might not even have it. There’s just this thing inside of some women—a little tissue, I s’pose—called a hymen. Might break the first time you have sex, and—and with everything else… stretchin’, y’know, if it hurts, you just talk to me, OK?”
You nodded, “OK.”
Joel lined himself up.
He gripped his length and angled it. Shifted on his knees.
Swiped the head through your folds a couple of times and made you shiver—was this supposed to be painful? You liked him there, and you tried relishing the feeling. Being wet, and sensitive, and spread with your legs wide open to Joel, you felt as vulnerable as you’d ever been.
You wanted to get the hurt over with.
“Put it in,” you urged, soft. “Go on.”
Joel’s lips twitched overhead. A light chuckle rumbled through him, and he continued the languorous strokes.
“Ain’t that simple,” he mumbled back. “It ain’t…polite.”
For what?
You were about to ask him as much, when Joel slid the flushed, leaking head of his dick from just grazing and bumping your slit to tapping directly—poking your clit. Smearing that pearlescent liquid from the little hole at the end to your throbbing bundle of nerves. You gasped.
Pleasure blossomed from that site. Joel tapped the head again—gentle, but insistent—and sparks ignited across your lower half. Your hips jerked, and you let out a whine.
“That’s why, darlin’,” Joel answered your wordless query. He smiled, sliding his dick back and forth between your thighs, over your trembling, glistening mound. “Only polite to knock on the door before he comes inside.”
And if you weren’t almost shaking in fear, you wouldn’t have hesitated to roll your eyes. Told the old, beaming man with his length poised over your pussy he was corny and not funny at all, y’know that? But instead, you just mirrored his grin, all crooked, soft, and indolent, and you leaned in to kiss him. You wrapped legs around his hips.
You trusted him.
Yet another confirmation of it came when Joel cradled the back of your head and kissed you deeper, sweetly, and then dragged his lips from your mouth to either one of your cheeks, your nose, your chin. Peppering kisses.
Trying to distract from what was forthcoming, maybe.
“Just look at me,” Joel murmured, drawing back and meeting your eyes. “Look at Daddy now, alright, baby?”
You did.
You nodded.
Joel pressed his hips forward, and—
“Fuck!” You swore under your breath.
It stung. No side-stepping the pain, the push of Joel’s length a mere quarter-inch inside stretched the rim of your pussy to what felt like maximum capacity. You dug your heels in his ass, and at the same time it felt like that thrust was going to halt where it was, you grit your teeth.
“Keep going. Please,” you begged him.
Joel groaned. His whole body shook.
“Baby, this pussy’s so fuckin’ tight.”
You must’ve felt like a fist to him—whether that was a good thing or a bad thing was yet to be decided, as the man’s mouth fell open, and a string of curses flew out. His hips stuttered, like he couldn’t bear the feeling, and then his hand lifted to stroke your cheek. His thumb trembled down the cusp of your jaw as his throat bobbed
“Oh…oh, honey. Can’t hurt ya, little one,” he said, choked
“You won’t. I want it,” you murmured back.
As if to affirm that statement, your walls clenched around his tip and sucked him deeper. Maybe a half-inch.
Once sheathed almost past his throbbing, leaking head, Joel seemed to grow even more delirious. He opened and closed his mouth, gray stubble shining from the faint lamplight of his woodworking station across the room, and you thought he’d never looked sweeter. Or needier.
You snaked your arms around his neck just as you felt your body begin to leak more moisture down his length. One soft, minuscule squelch where Joel’s most intimate part and yours molded together, mixing juices, and you could almost taste him on your tongue—feel him swelling bigger and harder pointing in toward your belly.
“Right here, Daddy,” you breathed, voice shrill from how badly you wanted him. “Show—Show me where it goes.”
You should’ve known that tapping into Joel’s pedagogical side would’ve stopped him on a dime.
And it did.
He blinked.
Eyes already clouded with lust and need, he swallowed.
“Y-Yeah?” He leaned closer and blanketed your body.
You nodded at him sweetly, spreading your thighs.
“Please, Daddy. Teach me how to be a big girl.”
Your words might as well have knocked him sideways. The man heaved the longest, lowest groan through his teeth, and muscles ticked on both sides of his mouth.
He liked that a lot.
He’d give you exactly what you needed now.
And, in short order, that was what he did—lowering his head, capturing your lips, kissing you sweetly and savoring your taste, he relished you. Pleasured you. Braced his elbows on either side of your head on the pillow and sucked in a breath and then slid in, finally.
“Open for Daddy,” he said, without pretense or pause.
No equivocation to his movements now, he drove deep. Your body followed as if by instinct, blooming around the intrusion and letting him in. It hurt; like you already knew, there was no sense in pretending as if it wouldn’t sting, but Joel was there through every second of it. Caring for you, kissing you, sawing that big, slippery member of his in and telling you, gently, ‘This is where Daddy belongs.’
“In—In my tummy, Daddy. Can feel ‘im in my tummy.”
“Yeah? Show me where.”
Joel’s hand moved under yours, swiftly guided to your stomach. His gaze shone with pride when you started drawing little circles over your belly button, all while his length was plunging in and out of your wet, needy hole.
You felt a bulge under the skin, and he felt it, too. Whatever hymen you had was probably split in half.
“See Daddy there? All up in your guts?”
You did. You whimpered, “Uh-huh.”
Then, somehow, the man sank even deeper—what once felt like it was teasing at your tummy touched your lungs.
Joel let out a strangled sound.
“Feel—Feel Daddy here?”
As soon as you answered yes, Joel rocked his hips forward to make sure he hit that spot again. It made stars fly before your eyes, not unlike the way you’d felt when he was knuckle-deep stroking your g-spot, but you could tell that this place was different, too. Your toes curled in anticipation, and your walls pulsed around him.
You liked it, not only for the feeling, but the meaning of it.
Something more significant lurked under the surface.
“Your cervix,” Joel said, voice thin and near hoarse.
Another stab of his pelvis, and your mind went dizzy with the pleasure—silly as it was, it also scared you, so you hugged Joel’s neck and nodded your head, ‘Cer-vix.’
“You know where…babies come from, right, hon?”
That question stumped you for a second.
Slowly, you shook your head at him.
And, like the time not long ago when you’d told Joel you wanted to be a big girl, this admission seemed to leave a lasting impression, too. Above you, Joel continued to roll his hips in fast, shallow thrusts and stretch your pussy out with it, prodding at your cervix in every movement.
“Well, this—this is what I was gettin’ at, darlin’.”
Another beat. Another thrust and a groan.
Joel had just managed to steel himself when he went on:
“The birds and the bees, I mean. This is…it. This is…”
Making love.
Making…
Joel didn’t even need to finish his thought, but he reached down anyhow. Feeling for the soft, squishy globes attached to the base of himself, between his legs, he ghosted fingertips over them and stifled a grunt.
“In here, ‘s’where a man stores semen. That’s—”
“The stuff that makes babies, right, Daddy?”
The pieces fell into place without him having to say another thing. The jostling of your body underneath him, pussy taking him deep with every stroke, how Joel would grunt and groan and pant in keening desperation, ‘Oh, sweetheart, that’s just what Daddy likes. Keep goin’,’ it only surprised you how long it had taken for you to see it.
Instinct clouded your sense; you said it without thinking:
“Want it in me, Daddy.”
Joel choked.
Oh.
At the same moment, your walls reflexively clenched, and your fingers wound through the dark, sweat-dampened curls at the nape of his neck. Inhaling a whiff of his aftershave and his natural scent, you felt something stir within you. You couldn’t name it.
You couldn’t place that primal need or why you craved him in you, pulsing out however much of that seed his body could give. It was as simple and as insistent as breathing; your pussy enveloped his length from root to tip and gave it a squeeze like your walls were trying to milk him. Joel’s body responded in kind, and he groaned.
“‘M’sorry, Daddy,” you squeaked. “I didn’t mean to.”
“You want Daddy to make a baby in your belly?”
Joel’s mouth was hovering less than an inch away from your own, and the look on his face was that of a man starved. His thrusts slowed. Hard, hot flesh twitched inside you and sank all the way in until you squirmed.
This gruff man, this tough man, this caretaker and wellspring of kindness and warmth. Protection since the day he’d entered your life. And now he was buried to the hilt, hips digging into yours, and he was smoothing a hand over your cheek. Seeming to be waging an internal war, he swallowed and held your hip with his other hand.
“Don’t—Don’t answer that,” he rejoined, hoarse.
“Please, Daddy. Please,” you whimpered back.
In an exploratory move, you reached to lick at his bottom lip. After that, his chin, down the plane of prickly silver stubble and then around his mouth, like you couldn’t get enough of the man. It felt natural; you lifted your hips and raised your eyes to him at the same time, begging.
You didn’t need to ask. Joel didn’t need to speak again.
But after taking a look deep in your eyes and feeling you hug him—tug him in, both between your arms and your thighs—it became readily apparent his resolve was shot.
His hips drew back and rocked forward.
His tip nudged your special spot, and you both groaned.
No further teaching or talking was needed from that point forward; you and Joel seemed both to operate on instinct, with your bodies making all of the requisite decisions to keep moving. Joel slipped his arms under your body and held you tight, pressed himself as near as he could while he drilled you into the bed and pushed you closer and closer to your peak. His length swelled and throbbed, and the whole time through, he couldn’t take his eyes off your face to watch what his movements were doing. Always ‘my girl,’ ‘my darlin’,’ or ‘my sweet, precious baby’ as his pubic bone bumped your clit and he cradled you to him. The bed creaked underneath the weight of each thrust, and before you knew it, your moans were increasing in pitch. Your body tightened.
Joel’s did the same, and with the tight, wet suction of your pussy all but cutting off the circulation to his dick, neither one of you had much say in what followed after—ropes of warmth coated your walls with every pulsation of his length, and euphoria seized you from head to toe.
How long it lasted, or how long Joel remained buried in your aching heat was anyone’s guess. All you knew was that when you re-opened your eyes on recovering from your pleasure, Joel was watching you. Thick, sticky warmth stuffed you to the brim before starting to leak out—and, evidently, your old man loved that feeling, as he couldn’t keep a grin from spreading across his face.
Cheeks glowing, eyes bright, and smile mirroring your own, it was clear he wasn’t going anywhere this time. Joel held you closer, then pressed a kiss to your cheek.
Joel can keep you pure, or he can keep you to himself.
Tags - dad!joel, smut, loss of virginity, incest/dadcest, inexperienced reader, icky daddy, teddy bear bumping, masturbation, fingering, oral sex (f!receiving), unprotected piv, creampie (plus a plan b later), angst. You’ve been warned. THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION AND ALL CHARACTERS ARE ADULTS. 8.1k words.
A/N - for the daddy’s girls ♡ @sofmoth, thank you for your eyes and help. you know i love you.
It’s early afternoon when Joel checks his watch that’s a minute or two ahead, and he’s missing you. His girl.
You’re only upstairs, just sleeping soundly in your bed. There’s plenty of worse places you could be, Joel figures, so he truly shouldn’t be complaining that you’re at home, safe in the room you grew up in. And it’s Sunday, and you’re a hard worker and a good girl, just like he raised you to be.
But goddammit, Joel misses you. He wants you down here with him, wants your head resting in his lap as he spins the little diamond studs in your ears he gifted you for your eighteenth birthday.
If Joel reaches for his own ear, he can still feel the fucked up scar from the piercing the girl at Claire’s gave him. You were nine when he took you to get your ears done, and you were about to wuss out until Joel made you a deal that he’d get his ears pierced too, so you could see it wasn’t so bad. Joel let you pick out his earrings, these tiny blue cubic zirconia butterflies that would match the ones you chose for yourself. The girl fuckin’ mangled his left ear, but whatever. The mission went successfully and with minimal tears. Some tears, but not the meltdown it could have been.
Joel groans and his knees crack loudly as he stands up from that worn out leather couch, and he walks up the stairs, heading right for your bedroom door. He twists the knob quietly, and the door creaks as he slowly pushes it open.
You’re the sweetest thing all laid out in your bed, tightly tucked head to toe in your blankets. You’ve got that same little pout on your lips you always wore when you slept. But your teddy’s out, Joel notices. Odd. He wonders what the hell you’re doing with him.
Joel steps quietly through your room, stopping at your bed. He reaches down and tickles his pointer finger over your nose, causing you to sniffle and scrunch your face all up. Joel grins, then moves down the bed. He lifts your blanket and gently tickles the bottom of your foot, chuckling at your wiggling toes.
“Daaaad,” you grumble groggily, pissed off when he doesn’t stop messing with you. Joel parrots your name back in the same tone, mocking you, earning a kick to his leg. Wrong move, kiddo. He catches your foot and raises it, tickling the very center where you’re most sensitive to it.
“Dad, stop.” You squirm and writhe, body betraying you as you giggle at your dad’s teasing. “You’re such an asshole. Just let me sleep, please.”
“Nope. S’time to get up an’ get showered. Ya need it,” Joel says, dropping your foot as he heads for your window and tugs on the blinds, letting them roll up with a loud snap. You groan loudly, covering your face with your pillow and pull your blankets back over your body, only for Joel to tear them off again. “Whatcha so tired for?”
“Nothing,” you reply in a clipped tone that Joel pays no mind to, a skill he learned from your teenage years. Pick and choose your battles.
“Snuck out, huh? Stayed up all night partyin’? That's what you’re all sweaty for?”
You pull your pillow off of your face and glare at your father, ignoring his question, then get up and out of bed. Joel leans over the mattress and straightens out the sheets, blankets, and pillows, then grabs your stuffed bear. “What’s Teddy doin’ out, hon? Thought you said you were too old for stuffies.”
“Did not.”
“Did too. When we did your big girl room, ‘member?”
You roll your eyes as you head for the bathroom. Time has passed, people grow and change. Maybe you’re not too old for stuffies anymore, but you sure as shit did tell him that when you were fourteen or so, somewhere around there. Your birthday present was a big girl room remodel, which you were so fucking excited for.
It started with bedding. Joel took you back to school shopping at Kohl’s like he’d done every year prior, and was beet red and scratching the back of his head as you shopped for new underwear and your first bras, bras that Joel had no idea how to help you with, bras that Joel couldn’t fucking believe you were now old enough for. A friendly woman took you into the dressing rooms and offered her expertise, and Joel quietly wandered away to give you your space.
With your new bras in hand, you left the dressing room and saw that Joel was gone. You searched the store for him until you found him in the home goods section looking at over priced coffee makers, both of you quiet and awkward. You tucked your bras under your new shirts and hoodies for the school year.
Joel cleared his throat, “So…what else is on our list, kiddo?”
“Shoes and socks.”
“Already? I just bought ya a pack of socks.”
“I ran out, Dad.”
Joel wondered how the hell you could run out of socks, when all they’re doing is going from your feet to the hamper to the washer and dryer. Teenage girls, what a fucking animal.
“Alright. Lead the way, then.”
Joel pushed the cart behind you as you headed for shoes and socks, but you ended up distracted by one of those model beds that were not to be sat on, Joel reminded you. The bedding caught your eye - some romantic, purpley-gray color with maroon floral details. You just…liked it. You don’t know. You still do.
“Dad.”
Joel looked at you from the cart, and put his hands on his hips. “No. We’re shoppin’ for school. Spent an arm an’ a leg already on supplies alone.” Fuckin’ binders and folders and scientific calculators for early algebra, Christ almighty.
“Please?”
“What’s wrong with your Care Bears?”
You frowned and tilted your head at your dad, his mirror image as you put your hands on your hips in the same exact way. As soon as the words left his mouth, he knew what was wrong with your Care Bears bedding. Shit, if he had Care Bears bedding at thirteen years old he’d probably be the same way. But still - how? How had you grown up so fast?
Joel made a face as he looked at the bedding with you, shaking his head as he looked at the price tag. The goddamned store was always overpriced to hell. “Go on,” he said, motioning towards it. “Go grab one.”
You smiled and searched a nearby aisle for the matching bedding, then retrieved one of the sets and put it into Joel’s cart. “That’s for a queen bed, Peanut. Go get a twin.”
“They don’t come in twin.”
“So…?”
“So I need a new bed,” you replied simply. “I’m too big for a twin now.”
Oh, that was rich. “Gimme a break, you are not too big for a twin bed.”
“Am too. My feet dangle off.”
That was a lie, and Joel knew it. “Y’sleep curled up in a ball anyway, so what’s it matter if your feet dangle off?”
You and Joel went back and forth on the bed issue as you led him to the shoe department. With him knelt in front of you with his thumb pressed on your toes, and in between telling you to wiggle ‘em, you argued your case. Something about you being too old for your room, and wanting something more ‘adult’. The other girls at school don’t have Care Bear and Disney princess rooms. You wanted a whole redo, top to bottom.
“Mm…I’ll think about it, kiddo.”
“So that’s a no, then. Awesome.”
Some fucking nerve you had at that age, snapping like that at your dad with a cart full of new clothes, and $80 Nikes on your feet Joel was going to buy you for gym, only for you to walk the mile run because you fucking hated that class so much. “‘Scuse me?” Joel shot back, his eyebrow raised.
“Sorry, Daddy.”
You were wrong, by the way. Joel ‘thinking about it’ wasn’t an outright no, it was him cooking up ideas for a room remodel for your upcoming birthday. It’d be a matter of taking measurements, getting Uncle Tommy on board, setting aside money for you to pick out new decorations and furniture.
And on your fourteenth birthday, Joel woke you up with a trip to Home Depot. “Ugh, Dad. I don’t wanna go with you to Home Depot,” you whined.
“Really? Don’t wanna pick out paint for your new room?”
Your precious face lighting up, god. Joel will never forget it.
“Suit yourself. Guess I’ll pick out paint on my own. Been meanin’ to redo the bathroom…”
“No! No, I’ll come with. Just give me like, five minutes to get dressed.”
“Alright, sweetheart. I’ll give ya like, five minutes to get dressed.”
Twenty minutes later (quantifiably more than five), you were on your way to Home Depot with a pillowcase in your hand to match the paint swatches to. And about a week after that, Joel was accidentally smearing paint on his face as he wiped his tears and sniffling nose while painting over the hand-done pink and purple flowers and butterflies that had bordered your wall since he brought you home from the hospital.
It wasn’t all bad. Joel was relieved to be getting rid of some of your junk, to be donating unused toys and so on. He wasn’t so relieved to be getting rid of Teddy. “You don’t need ‘im?” Joel asked.
“Nope.”
“But what if you miss him?”
“I won’t,” you replied, and ouch. Just like you didn’t miss Joel on your first day of seventh grade, either. He remembers that all too well, how you wouldn’t let him wait with you at the bus stop.
“What if you have a nightmare?”
“Well, I’ll just get in your bed, then.”
“Oh, is that so? I thought you were a big girl. Too cooool to sleep in Daddy’s bed,” Joel smiled, ruffling your hair as he put the stuffed bear into his closet. Maybe you didn’t need Teddy anymore, and that was okay. Joel liked knowing you still needed your daddy. “You still kinda like me, huh? Little bit?”
“No, I don’t,” you murmured, smiling shyly.
He won Teddy for you at Six Flags when you were younger. You and he made a whole date of it, daring each other to do scarier and scarier rides, getting sick off of greasy fair food. “Wimp,” Joel teased you in line for the haunted house.
“I’m not the wimp, Daddy, you’re the wimp.”
When you’d done all the rides and your feet were tired, you wanted to do games with him. “No can do, sweet pea. M’ready to go. ‘Sides,” Joel said, “They’re rigged anyhow.”
“Please? Just one game.”
Joel sighed. “What game?”
You pointed to the ring toss, and Joel saw what your eye was on. A big ass stupid teddy bear. Oh, what the hell. “Fine. Just the one game, then we’re leavin’.”
Tossing rings at the glass bottles, you managed to miss every damn one of them. “What’s over there?” Joel would say, chuckling as you managed to toss a ring behind yourself. “Gotta work on that aim, kiddo.”
Joel decided to play next, and to his surprise, he wasn’t doing half bad. By the end of the game, he had tossed all his rings onto all of the bottles. His prize, he decided, was the teddy bear you wanted.
You grinned on the walk back to his truck, holding one arm of the bear as Joel held the other, Teddy bouncing between you oth. “Whatcha smilin’ about over there, sweet girl?”
“Nothing,” you murmured.
“S’my teddy, ya know,” Joel intoned. “I won him fair an’ square, kiddo, so don’t you be gettin’ any ideas over there.”
When you got home late that night, Joel carried both you and the stuffed bear inside, and he laid you down in your twin sized bed, then placed the bear next to you. “Night, Peanut,” he whispered, kissing you on the forehead.
You shut the bathroom door, careful to make sure it’s locked before turning on the shower. You undress yourself and leave your pile of clothes on the floor, then step into the tub and let the hot water wash all over you for a few minutes or so.
Yawning, you reach for the bar of soap, frowning at the hair your dad left on it, from god only knows what part of his body. You rinse it off and then lather it in your washrag, scrubbing yourself. Neck, armpits, belly. The mess you made between your thighs last night.
There’s been this…thing, lately, and you’re not sure what to do about it. An ache at your most private area that throbs and makes you dizzyheaded, all hot and tingly. You’ve done your best to tend to it yourself but no matter how much touching, rubbing, or other stimulation you give to it, nothing changes.
The ache is always there. It gets better and worse, but it never quite leaves you. It’s distracting, irritating, and almost painful, even. But what are you supposed to do about it? Talk to your dad? Yeah, you know how that’ll go down. He’ll turn beet red and stutter his way through helping you with your “girly stuff” as he calls it, and then you’ll eat dinner in awkward silence at the dinner table.
That’s how it went when you got your first period anyway. It happened in the summer at the waterpark, when Joel noticed blood dripping between your thighs. You were complaining about a tummy ache that morning, after all, so it did make sense.
And he knew people had seen. God, you poor thing. Joel grabbed you by the wrist and pulled you aside, wrapping his own damp towel around your waist as he fumbled his way through telling you that you had a little issue that needed to be dealt with. He deputized some generous woman in helping you manage the bleed, but she only had tampons. And you were what, twelve? If that? Joel knew he shit the bed by not talking to you about it or preparing you at all, but fuck…it sure did sneak up on him.
By the tears in your eyes he saw when you left the bathroom, he knew it didn’t go well. You kept the waterpark’s towel and told Joel sternly that you needed to go home, and he didn’t argue. The drive back was silent, and Joel’s house was too, as you’d locked yourself in the bathroom and refused to come out until he knocked on the door an hour later, a Walgreen’s bag rustling in his hand.
He cleared his throat, “Gotcha…supplies, Peanut’.”
“I already tried. Go away,” you huffed, wiping away your tears.
“Pads, honey. Not tampons. Wouldja let me in so I can show you how to use ‘em? Please?”
The door unlocked. Joel set the bag down on the bathroom counter, then grabbed a pair of panties from the top drawer of your dresser and returned to you, all wrapped up, sniffling and bleeding in that white towel. You poor girl, god. His heart still aches.
“S’easy peasy, alright? Ya just…peel it…and put it on like a sticker, see?” Joel demonstrated how to use the pad, then crumpled up the wrapper and tossed it in the trash bin as he handed you your pad-covered underwear. “There ya are. I’ll leave you to it.” Joel left the bathroom and shut the door.
You changed out of your bloody bathing suit and into the underwear, then frowned as you looked in the mirror.
“Dad,” you deadpanned.
“What?”
“You put it on backwards.”
“Did I?”
“Yeah.”
“Shit…never was any good at arts an’ crafts. You do it then, sweetheart. You got the gist of it. And I am tellin’ ya right now, if you flush them things, girl, so help me god…”
You rolled your eyes. “I know, Dad.”
“There’s some extra goodies in the bag for ya.”
And then Joel left. You figured out your pad, then looked in the bag for the goodies your dad had mentioned. There was a bag of Sour Patch watermelons, which were (and still are) your favorite. How could he forget?
There was a trashy magazine, a couple of Lip Smackers, and a little Beanie Baby keychain that Joel knew you liked to collect, as your backpack was completely decked out in those things. And a little note written on the yellow legal pad paper Dad kept in his truck that read:
Sorry if I embarrassed you. Pizza for dinner later ok? I love you Peanut. - Dad.
You met Joel downstairs afterward, which he was not expecting. He’d figured you’d wanna keep to yourself the rest of the day, but instead, you wrapped yourself around his torso on that old ass couch, allowing yourself to be loved and held by your dear old man. He kissed your forehead and didn’t say much beyond that you didn’t have to talk about it if you didn’t want to, and you could write him a note when you ran out of supplies and if you had any questions. He’d do his best.
While rinsing out the shampoo you’ve lathered in your hair, you hum. The dull, constant pressure against your scalp feels nice, doesn’t it? It doesn’t take you long to figure out where else it’d feel nice, too. After conditioning your hair and rinsing that out as well, you take the showerhead off the wall, then point it between your thighs and let your eyes close.
It’s easy to relax into the sensation, the hot gentle stream of water against your aching pussy. You move it up and down, rotate it around in a circle…but more is needed.
You push the setting toward the jet stream instead of rain, then angle it toward your clit. “Oh, fuck.” The vibration is hard enough to make your knees buckle, so you ease yourself to the floor of the tub, legs spread wide as you rest your head against the tile and find the right positioning all over again.
You breathe deeply, focusing on what feels good. The pleasure’s a little sharp yet, sort of surface level and too intense. You’ve learned that’s how it usually goes at first, until you relax into it, feel it a little deeper inside. There’s an ebb and flow that comes next - finding that pleasure, that sweet spot, and letting it build and build until…until it vanishes, or you shy away from the sensation entirely, and what is it that you’re afraid of?
God only knows how much time passes as you’re breathing in the steam, hips and knees aching from the awkward way you’re sitting in the tub, focusing so hard on trying to reach…something, something significant. It’s been hours, hasn’t it? Days, even. And you know it’s right there. It fucking has to be. Every nerve in your body is lit on fire as you work for your orgasm, despite not knowing that’s what you’re working for, and you’re exhaling hard when you lose it, then hold your breath as you try to find it again. That obsessive cycle. At least using the showerhead, your fingers aren’t aching.
You feel it again, that electricity deep inside you. Flutter, tingle, whatever you could call it. It takes a concerted effort not to shy away from it, to lean into it and feel, even when it’s new and a little scary. You wish you had a hand to hold.
Like when you were on top of that roller coaster at Six Flags. You remember it all, don't you. How Dad made you promise him at the back of the line that you wouldn’t wimp out. And, he said, you weren’t allowed to hold onto the handles at all. Arms up the whole time, kiddo. Them's the rules.
And how at the top of the ride, the cart paused. Building excitement, anticipation. Your little heart pounded as you looked down at the ant-sized people below, the booths and food stands that looked like dollhouses from where you sat. Right before the cart descended, you reached for Joel’s hand. He looked at you and smiled, gave you a squeeze, and down you went.
On the other side of the door, Joel knocks twice, startling you. “Everything comin’ out okay?”
Jesus fucking Christ, your father. You drop the shower head and thud your head against the tile, frustrated as you groan to yourself. “Oh my god, Dad.”
“Jus’ askin’,” Joel shrugs. “You’ve been in there a while.”
“I just like to take long showers! Just - oh my god. Can you leave me alone? Please?”
“Uh huh. Take long showers all you want when you’re outta the house an’ payin’ your own damn water bill,” Joel shouts over the sound of the rushing water, loudly tapping on the door. “Now wrap it up, you.”
Your father has uncanny timing. The water’s beginning to turn cold anyway, so you shut it off and step out of the shower, still with an ache between your thighs and a fuzzy head, irritated that you can’t figure yourself out.
You dress yourself and fix your hair, then head downstairs to join Joel on the couch. He’s in the spot he’s always sitting in, wearing the Levi’s jeans he’s owned since before you were even conceived. Legs spread wide, arms outstretched too as he watches his Cowboys play. He pats the empty place next to him, but grunts when you choose to sit on his lap instead. And Joel could complain, say something to you about how you’re too big to be doing this and you’re gonna break his back and this, that, and the other…but he’ll never. He’s luckier than most fathers are, lucky that his girl still wants to love on him and cuddle him. So Joel scratches your back instead, and he kisses you on top of your head, right where your soft spot used to be. His heart is beating right next to yours.
He smells good. Dad always did, anyway. Like the laundry detergent he’s always used, which you can hardly smell on your clothes anymore, so used to the scent over years of use. He smells like Old Spice too, and just…himself. His skin, his sweat, his breath. All comforting and masculine.
You shouldn’t be thinking about him like that, and you know it. You feel guilty when he slips into your mind during private moments, like last night and just before now in the shower. You don’t know. You don’t know what it is. Wires crossing, whatever. You really don’t know.
But it’s hard not to, right? Especially when he’s absentmindedly bouncing his knee, your restless father. Jerking when one of those good-for-nothin’ receivers misses a touchdown that might as well have been fucking handed to him. You feel his leg press right against where it aches and throbs, and it relieves a little bit of pressure. It makes you sigh, and almost moan if you’re not careful.
You rock a little, chasing that feeling again. Can’t be too rhythmic about it, but you can be slow, careful, shifting from one side to the other, or rolling your hips in the tiniest way.
“Settle down, hon. You’re bein’ squirrely,” Joel says, and you freeze. You pull away, and he’s giving you a suspicious look.
“Sorry. I’m gonna be right back.”
Without an explanation, you slide off of Joel and rush back up the stairs, desperate to take care of this - whatever it is, now. You fling your door open and strip naked, then grab your teddy and push him between your legs, his threaded nose pressed right against your wet seam. You grind against him urgently, so desperate to find a remedy to your ailment. Fingers clutching the edge of your mattress as you move your hips, eyes squeezed tightly shut. You moan into your pillow, less out of pleasure and more out of frustration, frustration enough to make you cry and grit your teeth as you hump that stuffed bear, hoping to god that whatever it is that hurts you like this, it’ll stop hurting soon. You need relief so fucking badly.
Joel looks up at the ceiling as it creaks, wondering what in god’s name you’re doing in that bedroom of yours. Probably trying to rearrange your furniture again, and how many goddamn times has he told you to ask for his help? He doesn’t want you scratching the paint off the walls or worse, hurting yourself.
So Joel sighs and his knees crack as he pushes his body off the couch, ready to scold you for attempting to do this shit all by yourself again. He walks up the steps, turns the corner, and his jaw drops.
With her door wide open, Joel’s daughter is completely naked and writhing on the teddy bear he won for her, moaning into her sheets and pillows. His hands shake and his heart pounds so hard he can feel it in his throat, fucking nauseated at the sight of you, and nauseated that his cock is hardening anyway. When Joel says your name, his voice is quiet and wavering.
You turn your head over your shoulder, face dropping at the figure standing in your doorway.
“Dad!”
You quickly cover yourself with a blanket at the same time Joel turns away and shields his eyes, willing away his hardon, too. “The hell are you fuckin’ doin’?” he hisses. Once you’re decent, Joel snatches your bear and looks at your mess in utter disgust. “Got anything to say for yourself?”
“I don’t know! It - it hurts, so I like…I don’t know. Don’t be mad, Dad. Please.”
“Don’t be mad?”
Joel’s standing there in front of you, seething as you stare back at him. Eyes all wide, looking so small and ashamed of yourself. He pauses for a second and looks at the bear again, then lets out a shaky breath.
You’re…just…doing what comes natural, same as Joel did when he was your age, same as anyone does. In fact, Joel was even younger, flipping through magazines he stole from his father, and his father wasn’t even supposed to have those. You’re not doing anything wrong, not really. And if Joel thinks about it, it’s probably his fault for never talking to you about all this…girly stuff. He gave you the basics when you were a kid, and that was that. Nothing more. He kind of figured you’d, well. Figure it out.
Joel rubs the wet spot on the bear with his thumb, then speaks.
“M’not…fuck, I’m no good at this. I ain’t mad, kiddo,” he murmurs, pausing to collect his thoughts and take another deep breath. Lightheaded, Joel sits down on the edge of your bed, refusing to look at you. “Just…I don’t know. Guess I still thought you were too young for all that shit. You scared me.”
Joel rubs his forehead and pinches the bridge of his nose, breathing deeply. He’s still hard, and hoping you never saw. It’s not like - not like it means anything, you know? He’s a man, and dicks have a fucking mind of their own. Jesus.
And he’s sad, too. Scared. You’re growing up - you have grown up. Every coming of age moment is bittersweet but fuck, this one…it’s doing a number on your poor old man.
“I’ll leave ya to it, then. Just - please close the door next time, kid–”
You grab Dad’s shoulder before he can leave. “Help.”
“Help?”
“It hurts,” you tell him again, urgency in your voice. “I don’t know what’s wrong.”
“You’re all worked up, hon. Gotta…ya know. Go deal with it.”
“But I don’t know how, Dad,” you complain, pressing your hand against your throbbing center. “I’ve been touching and I tried - with the shower head, earlier. But it didn’t work. It just really fucking hurts, Daddy.”
“Sweetheart–”
Joel looks at you and sighs. He knows it hurts. Lord, how he knows, what with the way you’ve your hand between your thighs, those baby rocks of your hips as you whimper at the friction. And Joel knows he could walk away, that he probably should walk away.
But as a parent, it isn’t easy to see your child in pain.
And Dad’s a fixer, right? He’s the man who sticks those overpriced, patterned Band-aids on you (Band-aids that he buys you, mind you), even when he tells you they won’t do a damn thing to fix whatever’s hurting. He’s the one who pulls out your splinters with his pocketknife, ices the ankles you twist. Threatened the shithead teenage boys that toyed with his baby girl’s heart. And Joel felt like a failure when he couldn’t ease the pain of your aching appendix, waiting in emergency room triage with his rapidly bouncing knee, hands squeezed together as he prayed straight to god you’d be alright.
So Joel thinks about what he should do here. He sure as shit doesn’t like the idea of sending you into a sex shop full of perverts to what, buy yourself some plastic cock that’s way too big for you? Pass. And he doesn’t like the idea of your girlfriends filling your head with heaven only knows what fucking ideas. God forbid you end up in the arms of some guy who’ll do nothing but take advantage of you like this. Unlike…Well, himself.
For a fleeting moment, Joel considers it. Being the one to take care of you. He’s always taken care of you, after all.
If he’s being honest with himself, Joel’s thought about it before. Sliding his dick into you, his sweet fucking girl. Not that he ever thought about it a lot, you know? Just…in passing, and he’d shake away those thoughts immediately, scold himself. But things are quite different now, aren’t they?
He knows how wrong it is, but he’s got a decision to make: he can keep you like this, aching and desperate for relief, but pure. And you’ll resent him for it, just like all little girls do to their daddies who are just trying to look out for them, who have their best interest in mind.
Or, Joel decides, he can keep you all to himself.
And would that be so terrible? You’ve experienced all your other firsts with him, anyway. First word, first steps, first day of school, first period, first time driving a car. Safe in your father’s arms, would it be so awful to experience this first with him, too?
Because realistically, what happens if he doesn’t hold you through this? You’ll go off and fuck somebody else - somebody who doesn’t care about you the way your dear old dad does, somebody who’ll use you to get their rocks off and leave you heartbroken and confuses. Somebody who’ll never love you the way Joel does.
Daddy will make it nice. Special. As painless as can be, and as pleasurable. He’ll make you cum and he’ll hold you tight against his chest, your heart against his heart.
Joel turns around and looks at you, and his expression softens. He reaches out and cups your chin, then whispers, “Oh, Peanut. What’m I gonna do with you?”
“I don’t know, Daddy.”
“I know, sweet pea. I know.”
“I was up all night,” you tell him, and Joel nods in understanding before you can finish. “–And it’s been hurting since–”
“Guessin’ for a while now, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah.” It all makes sense now. That little wiggle you were doing on his lap downstairs. And then the shower, obviously. “Alright, kiddo. Let me see. S’okay,” Joel says, his voice soft. “M’gonna fix it.”
You pause, and Joel looks at you. You did ask for his help, but you meant something like…you don’t really know, exactly. Consciously or not, it seems as though both of you were dancing around the idea of crossing that line. Here’s said idea is at the surface, and what are you supposed to do with it?
“I mean, I don’t think we’re supposed to. Right, Dad?”
“It don’t work like that, sweetheart. M’the parent an’ you’re my child,” he murmurs. “You’re my responsibility. Let me worry about it.”
“But I - Aren’t we? I don’t know, like…I don’t think–”
Joel puts his hand on your knee, stopping you. “Hey. Do you trust me?” He looks at you earnestly, and your face is a near-twin image to his own, not that either of you can see that in the moment. He rubs your knee with his thumb, gentle, patient.
You do. You do trust him. Because Dad has always, always had your back. Is he a perfect man? No. He never claimed to be, either. He could be a little firm, a little strict, a little flawed. Do as I say, not as I do. Sometimes, not always. But Dad’s fair, and he’s loving and tender. Not every man is.
And so you nod and lie back, doing as you’re told, the good girl you are. Still covered in the blanket, you’re shy. It’s nothing he hasn’t seen before, but it’s different like this.
“Know you’re nervous,” Joel murmurs, taking your hand in his larger one, weathered and scarred from years of work. “Gonna make you cum,” he tells you, punctuating the sentence with a few squeezes to your palm, Joel himself nervous. “You know what that is?”
You shrug. “Kind of. Sorta.”
“Well, you’ll know it when ya feel it. That’s what’ll fix it, sweetheart.”
“What’s it feel like?”
Joel makes a face as he searches for the words, trying to figure out how to explain it. “Jus’ feels good,” is what he settles with. “Promise you’ll like it. Now, show me where it hurts.”
“Okay.”
With shaking hands, you uncover yourself, bare before your father, goosebumps decorating your smooth skin. “I’m cold.”
“I know, baby. Gonna warm up real soon.” Joel rubs a hand up and down your shin, then speaks again. “You’re beautiful,” he whispers, sincere as ever.
It’s so profoundly intimate that you don’t quite know what to do with yourself, what to say. “Daaad.”
“Don’t know where in the world those looks came from. Sure as hell didn’t get ‘em from my ugly mug,” he jokes, and you don’t know what to say to that, either. Do you tell him he’s handsome?
Joel removes his shirt next, then undoes his pants and slides them down his legs, along with his boxers. If you can be naked, so can he.
If you had to eat all of your veggies, Joel had to eat all of his, too. That was the rule.
He closes and locks the door, then pulls down on the blinds he woke you up with. Those added layers of privacy make all the difference, as does the darkness. Not pitch black, just…a less color and light saturated room is calming. It tells your body that it’s time to be quiet now, time to relax.
“Scooch, kid.” Joel gives your ass a gentle swat to urge you toward the other side of the bed, making room for his body. He groans as he lays down, pulling the covers up and over the both of you, though he’s not cold.
You can’t help but giggle at the awkwardness, the newness of it all. Skin against skin, Dad’s rubbing your body, tracing the lines of those beautiful curves of yours. The dip in your waist as you lie on your side, the rise of your hip, and the slightly less exaggerated dip that follows as he drags his knuckles down your thigh. “What’s funny?”
“I don’t know,” you answer quietly, still smiling nervously.
“Knucklehead.”
Joel kisses your forehead then, still just touching you gently, getting you used to his hands being in places he’s never touched like this before. Over your stomach, between your thighs, your breasts. He kisses your cheeks, your nose, and your heart pounds at the prospect of kissing his lips, his tongue slipping into your mouth. Such a different kiss than you’re used to sharing with him.
“Are you going to kiss me?”
“Mmm...nah. Don’t think I like ya enough to kiss ya.”
You roll your eyes. God, your father. But Joel goes for it then, kissing you gently. His lips move against yours, his tongue teasing your own. He smiles as you moan, tilting your body back against the mattress. He tastes like he smells, so perfectly comforting and familiar.
You didn’t ask if you could touch him, but you find yourself squeezing Joel’s bicep, the bicep of his that you use as a pillow. Where you wrap your arms around his, then press your ear to his shoulder and let your eyes flutter shut.
You gasp when you feel his fingers make contact with your seam, and Joel groans, too. So fucking wet.
“Y’alright?” he asks, his dark eyes searching yours.
“Yeah,” you answer quietly. Your lips part as his middle finger, just the one, presses between your lips. He moves it slowly, introducing you to the feeling of himself being there, that most private and special place. How intimate that he gets to be the one to first touch you like this, to walk with you through this act of love?
Joel finds your clit and rubs it with two fingers now, just experimenting. What do you like? What do you not like? What with the way your body fucking melts underneath him, Joel guesses you like it all. Fucking kid in a candy store.
“Yeah, you like it there, huh?”
“I like…little circles.”
Joel lifts his eyebrows and shakes his head, amused by your request. “Little circles. Ten four on that, Peanut.” He circles you just as you’ve asked him to, your swollen clit throbbing under his calloused fingertips.
“Gonna let me show you somethin’ cool?”
You nod. Joel moves lower, “F’I put my fingers right here,” he muses, dipping those fingers into your wet hole. You squeeze him a little, which is to be expected. “Takes a lil’ finaglin’ sometimes, but I’ll getcha.”
He pumps his fingers in and out of you, slowly, allowing you to feel the bulge of his knuckles knuckles. “Relax your muscles, honey. Let Daddy in,” he coaches, shushing you as he encourages you to let go of your tension. “Easy, now. M’just workin’ her open, is all.”
You knit your brows together, doing your best to unclench. There’s a bit of pain there, a little stretch. Dad praises you when he feels you loosen your muscles, and he rewards you with another kiss. “How’s it feelin’?”
“Hurts a little.”
“Hurts a little?” he parrots, and you nod. “Gonna feel good in a second, kiddo. Real good. Y’want me to kiss it better?”
Your eyes fly open and you give Joel an incredulous look. “What? No way.”
“Oh, c’mon. Be brave. It’ll feel good,” he urges, pulling his fingers out of your pussy to taste you now. An impatient man, he is. Ignoring your stammering because father knows best, Joel spreads your legs and moves between your thighs, pulling you closer to him by your hips.
“Dad–”
“Cut ya a deal,” Joel offers, looking you in your eyes. “F’ya don’t like it, I’ll stop. No questions asked, you just say the word.”
He proposed the same deal when it came to new foods. You don’t have to like it, he said, but you at least have to try it. One bite.
“Fine.”
Joel rolls his eyes. You. And all it takes is one kiss against your pretty little clit to make you gasp, and a single long lick of Joel’s tongue along your slit to have you crying out, hands flying to tug on his hair.
“Want me to stop?”
“N - more, Daddy.”
“Whatever happened to those manners I taught ya, huh?”
Joel laughs to himself and continues licking you, using his tongue to make you squirm and arch into his mouth. You taste so fucking good, so sweet and so yourself. He licks you from bottom to top, swirling in figure eights around your clit before traveling lower, dipping his tongue into your dripping hole.
He licks his middle two fingers again, and it’s easier to push them inside of you now. There’s no resistance and in fact, you pull him in. Flicking his tongue against your clit, Joel shows you that something cool he mentioned earlier. He curls those thick fingers upward while inside of you, rubbing against that most special of places. You moan loudly, unable to keep still as Daddy fucks you on his fingers.
“Yeah, there she is. Pretty neat, huh?”
“Wh-what are you doing? Fuck, Dad.”
“Magic trick. Can’t tell ya,” Joel teases, going back to licking your clit. His combined efforts have you closer to release than you’ve ever had yourself, and so much more intensely. Like a fire in your guts, every fucking nerve in your body set ablaze. And then it ends.
“Dad!” you huff, frustrated.
Joel smiles all crooked and cocky. It’s a father’s right to piss off his babygirl sometimes, right? To tease her for her crushes, sing along badly to her favorite songs. Worse yet, making up his own incorrect lyrics. He just wants to get a rise out of you. Or maybe it’s that he wants to be inside you when you experience your very first orgasm. Maybe a little of both, honestly, though one significantly more than the other.
Joel hushes your complaints, moving up your body. It’s jarring to smell yourself on his skin, to feel your own slick when he kisses your cheek. The mood shifts, turning from playful to more serious as he swallows thickly, taking your hand in his again. You’re going to want to hold it.
“M’gonna make love to ya,” he breathes, pausing a second. “‘Cause I do. Love ya,” he clarifies, kissing your temple and nosing your hair. “That okay?”
It’s okay. You swallow too, heart pounding hard again, blood rushing to your gut. It’s hard to find words, and Joel knows that. He knows you well enough to know what a yes is and what’s a no, and what to nudge you on and what to let you do on your own.
This, however, you get to do together. Hand in hand, father and daughter.
Joel nods and you nod back, and you’re breathing shakily as he reaches between himself to pump his cock a few times, flinching when you feel the head of his cock against your cunt. He picks up on your anxiety, and rubs the back of your hand with his thumb. “S’just you an’ me. Just us.”
“I know.” Your voice is quiet, barely above a whisper. “I’m just scared, Daddy.”
“Scared of what?”
“All of it. Of it hurting, too.”
“You’re a tough kid,” Joel counters. He drops your hand in favor of dragging the back of his knuckle along your cheekbone, and hushes you before you can start working yourself all up. “Hey,” he says, firm. Then, softer, “I know you’re scared. But you know what?”
“What?”
“M’not,” he shrugs. “Done it a million times. S’how you ended up here, anyway.”
You giggle. Gross. And Joel laughs too, then continues, “Ain’t scared of a thing. It’s gonna be just fine. Alright?”
“Alright, Daddy.”
Joel smiles kindly, crows feet decorating the sides of his eyes. He holds your hand again, pins it against the pillow. With his free hand, he spits into his palm before aligning himself with your entrance.
And he goes. Joel pushes himself inside you, ever so gently, every so slowly. That tedious slide into your body has him sucking in a sharp breath, and groaning on his exhale. You cling to your father, wrapping your arms and legs tightly around him as you bury yourself in his neck, whimpering at the feeling, the newness.
“It hurts.”
“I gotcha, sweetheart. You’re okay.” Joel eases himself inside you the rest of the way, bottoms out with a soft grunt. He looks down, his belly pressed against yours, and his gaze travels up your body. Your eyes are squeezed tightly, as is your pussy around his length. You’re taking shallow breaths, all lost in your own head, not realizing what’s happening. What’s happened.
“Dad?”
“You fuckin’ did it, babygirl. Hey - look. Look,” he repeats in a sweet and soft tone, urging you to open your eyes and look at where your bodies connect. “See?”
Your face splits into a smile, and you instantly relax around him. “Atta-fuckin’-girl,” Joel praises, drawing out of you, watching as you watch him. “Tell me who loves ya,” he groans, pushing back in. “Huh? Who loves ya?”
“You do,” you moan, arching your back and tilting your hips as Joel builds a slow, easy pace. You gasp and whimper, nails digging into his shoulderblades as he moves. It’s indescribable, really. The fullness, the intimacy. The pleasure, that feeling of his cock brushing against the spot only reached once before by his fingers, just a moment ago.
“Don’tcha ever fuckin’ forget it, Peanut.”
Joel’s swearing in your ear, moving in and out of you at a quicker pace now. His hand slides up your body to squeeze your breast, then back down to grip your hip. He loves the noises you make, the most beautiful sounds of pleasure. And to think, it’s all him that’s doing this to you. The sweetest taboo there is.
You’ve waited long enough for release. Joel licks his fingers and wedges his hand between your bodies, simply pressing his fingertips against your clit. He does those favorite circles of yours, and there's an added sensation from his hips steadily rolling into yours, creating such a tremendous, powerful, impending release.
“Dad, Dad, Dad, oh my god, Daddy–”
“You got it, sweetheart. Let it happen. Cum for Daddy.”
You make the prettiest face when you finally cum, and it’ll be burned in Joel’s memory until he dies. Lips parted, eyes shut, moaning Daddy. Joel can’t help but smile and laugh breathlessly as you cum around his cock, completely awestruck by his girl. Look at her go.
All of that tension, all of that pressure culminates in the most excruciatingly pleasurable tensing and releasing of your muscles, of every nerve fraying as if it were a candlewick under a flame. Your legs shake around Dad’s hips and you moan, clinging to him for dear life as the sensation finally begins to subside.
“Lookit ya,” Joel breathes, fucking you through the final waves of your pleasure, gray hair falling in front of his face. “All grown up. How ‘bout that.”
He pulls your body closer to his, as if that’s even possible, and pounds into you. Probably harder than he should, but you can fucking take it, because Joel raised you to. Balls tightening and his cock stiffening, Joel lets out the most guttural noise as he finally spills into you, pumping you full of the very cum you came from. Just this once, he promises to himself, absentmindedly. Joel sees his climax through to the end, til he’s emptied every last drop of himself into you.
Breathing heavily, Joel pulls out of you, spilling his mess onto that special bedding. He flops onto his back and pulls you into his side, tucking you right where you belong as he whispers breathlessly praises about how good you did, how much he fucking loves you.
“I love you too, Daddy.”
Moments pass as you and Joel both come down, heartrates evening out. You shift uncomfortably, and Joel notices a look on your face. “What is it, sweet pea?”
“Just kinda sore,” you answer, and Joel sits up. He spreads your legs, brow pinched together as he checks you out, worried he was, in fact, too rough. You’re a little swollen, a little irritated. Nothing too bad.
“Won’t be forever,” he tells you, reaching for your pussy. He collects his dripping spend from your hole and pushes it back inside, making a mental note to put you on birth control. And he’ll have to shell out forty bucks for a Plan B. Jesus, he hasn’t had to do that since his twenties. The fucking pill probably isn’t forty bucks anymore, either.
Joel pats your thigh, then nods in the direction of the bathroom. “Go potty. Get cleaned up,” he tells you.
You sigh and shake your head. Already barking orders at you, your father. “Why?”
“‘Cause we’re goin’ out. Daddy-daughter date, huh? Like we used to.”
“Thought that was only for special occasions.”
“It is a special occasion, ain’t it?”
You smile. Yes, it is.
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If you enjoyed, please, please, please reblog. I know people are hesitant to publicly engage with icky fics, but I’m asking that you step out of your comfort zone and leave a nice word in a rb. Thank you 🙏
Asks and smutty thots always welcome :) you never know, maybe you’ll inspire a fic.
I just love how minor inconveniences make me genuinely homicidal. If only I had a little snuff slut to take my rage out on. Someone to make a bloody mess of. To completely disfigure and disembowel. It's a need at this point.
areudirty
izzy806
kaledo-art
andulkaphoto
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