Cold Shoulder

That he managed to keep his haul of dirty laundry intact through the rough trip to the bathroom was a point of pride only the **** could appreciate. He even managed to drunkenly dump most of it into the open hamper as he was dragged past the sink. Catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror, his flushed cheeks and messy blond fringe confusingly reminded him of that wedding night with Charlotte. There was a brief and wonderful moment of warm reminiscence, then he found his back pressed against cold tiles. The shock of it jolted him halfway sober already. The ringing of metal as Daphne yanked the detachable showerhead off the wall made him flinch. His daughter loomed over him, her expression hard to read with the stark bathroom lights stinging his eyes. Why did his stinky girl look so angry? And in nothing but her damp tanktop… her dark bush hovered just below his periphery…

Daphne’s heart was thudding being so close to him. The smell of his peach-scented shampoo mixed with the sour breath of his intoxication was heady, and she almost didn’t want to wash it away. Another short, gasp of a hiccough strengthened her resolve.

“Sober. Up,” she commanded, and with that she spun the cold handle. Fwash should be a word. Onomatopoeic, it’s loud and wet and cold and forceful. It was the stinging of icy water on Casey’s face and the chill soaking into his hair and front of his dress. Daphne fwashed her father up and down with the showerhead, the stream almost pinning him to the wall as he squealed and spluttered and meekly flailed against the hydrating ****. It had been a brief fwash, five seconds maybe, but it did the job and the gasping little man was suddenly aware of everything. His fluttering butterfly of a heartbeat, the clinging, cold constriction of his drenched sundress and soaked panties. The overbearing presence of his daughter, her wide shouldered, rippling strength. She was so close to him, radiating a heat that he really needed right now. A warm hand grabbed his face, fingers and thumb squeezing his cheeks, a salty palm covering his lower lips. That smell he knew became a taste and he shivered, but not from the cold. “Are you awake now?” Daphne sneered.

Vision shuttered between the clumped strands of his damp fringe. Her face was a strange, mysterious puzzle of seering blue eyes, soft full lips and sharp white teeth. Casey had never seen his daughter this way and was entranced.

Daphne found the shivering, mute form of her father somehow slightly more infuriating despite how part of it was her own fault, hand clamped over his mouth. There was a new thrill burning through her arms and legs too as she experienced her own strength used against such a fragile body. “I asked you a question, Dad,” she growled, raising the showerhead threateningly. “Have you woken up to yourself? Do you know how pathetic you are?”

The words made Casey’s eyes water, and his cheeks were already damp and dripping. Why was she saying these things? Why did they sting the only way subconscious truths did when someone else uncovered them for you? “Mom doesn’t want you anymore,” she went on, oblivious to the true cruelty of accusations that were probably true. “She doesn’t see you like she used to, does she?”

The man blinked up at his daughter, helpless under the boiling furnace of Daphne’s body pressing his back and bum against the freezing tiles. She relaxed her grip around his narrow jaw, and Casey thought to take a gasping breath, then gasped again as that hand touched his neck. Her fingers suddenly felt so soft, unlike when they were cinched like handcuffs around his wrist. Daphne continued, slowly, tracing her hand down to his chest, pressing a palm against the wet material which managed to squeeze some water out between her fingers. She could imagine his smooth, bare chest under the daisies, the patter of his rapid heartbeat almost matching her own thudding one. His tiny nipples poked out so deliciously she wanted to tear through the wet fabric with her teeth. “Mom doesn’t see how perfect you are anymore,” she said quietly, things taking on a dreamlike quality. She desired to keep this dream going… to get away with as much as she could before reality found them. “The perfect little daddy…” Her hand slid down to his narrow waist, rested on the slight flair of his boyish hips. Still fully clothed, Casey suddenly realised how exposed he was. The wet dress clung so tight to his flat stomach and his soft, shapely legs… and it all served to make the strained, raised outline of his erection unmissable. There were a few reasons for that.

The rough snort from his daughter at the sight of it only made him embarrassingly, shamefully harder. “Wow Daddy, look at this thing,” scowled his daughter, her hand drifting ever closer, but she didn’t grab him yet, only pinched the fabric of his dress and tugged it back, making it hug his stiffness tighter. He squeaked at the sudden pressure and added restrictiveness. “You’re quite a bit bigger than you look hmm?” she said, almost sounding disappointed. Casey knew he wasn’t hung like a hunk, or blest with a tiny penis like a sprite, but he always felt like he was perfectly reasonably sized. Perfect for his wife, he remembered Charlotte whispering into his ear so many years ago. He was her cute little turtle, always in his pretty little shell. It had been years since he heard words like that from her. “You’re hard as fuck,” spat their daughter, and the profanity was more sobering than the cold shower had been. “That’s pretty gross, Daddy,” Daphne told him, even though she had never been wetter in her entire life. With no underwear on she could feel it dribbling down the inside of her thighs.

She closed the gap between their bodies even more, her athletic form now just inches from his. Her own nipples were stiff and straining against her top. “Are you hard for me, little Daddy?” she wondered, loosening her grip on his dress, but there was no relief for her father in that. Not yet. “Is that how much Mom’s been neglecting you?” she asked, the question bringing her head lower, and she more freely took a sniff of the sad, wet little man, his neck hot. He couldn’t even turn his head away, joints seeming locked in place. “You’re so pathetically horny, getting grabbed by your big scary daughter makes your perfect little cock. So. Hard. And hot!”

“Stiiinhh!” he whimpered, suddenly held and squeezed. His brain barely processed it, even though it was obvious what was happening. The heated grip of Daphne’s hand on his swollen groin made him want to shout, to scream, but whatever he had wanted to call out was stuck in his throat. He found his daughter’s eyes then, strange and intense and wide like his, like she too was surprised. But her grin was a mad, glinting sickle blade.

“I can make you feel good, Daddy,” she told him, rolling his cock roughly in her palm, the wet material separating their bare skin softly squelching, the water warming. It was a warning and a promise. “When was the last time you tasted some good pussy huh? Got your head stuck between a nice strong pair of thighs? Hmm?” She squeezed him, gripping his constricted shaft with an open hand over that flimsy dress and soaked through cotton underwear. The way it twitched as he squirmed helplessly beneath her was making Daphne drool. “What if I made you mine? Hmm? Be your big girl’s good little Daddy… I won’t treat you wrong. I won’t leave you cold and alone for months. I’ll make sure you get to suck a nice fat clit…”

“Mmm…ma...” was all Casey managed to quaver out, the rhythmic pressure his daughter’s palm against his cock really all he could focus on. Her words were too confusing… too much. Daphne strained her ears, but she didn’t hear a ‘no’. She didn’t hear ‘stop’. She only heard…

“D-Daphne…”

Her name. Her father spoke… or he sighed… with need, and there was just a pleading look in his eyes. A delicate, scared and small man at the mercy of a woman nearly twice his height. A real woman. One with a hunger and thirst only he could quell and quench. He mouthed a word she couldn’t hear. Please.

Daphne dripped puddles onto the floor.

“Go on then Daddy,” she said, keeping up her pulsing, pushing handjob. “Let it out. Let it all out you slutty little-”

“AhhnnAhh! Eeii!” Casey cried out in strain, breathless in seconds and needing to gulp for air while arching his back, his hidden cock spluttering. Daphne’s own legs nearly gave out, feeling the heat bloom out from the fabric and seep between her fingers. She leaned forward, and planted her other hand onto the wall, found her father pressing his face into her shoulder, still whimpering, still cumming. She kept up her jerking motion, pressing his spurting dispenser for all he was worth, the hot goo bubbling out of the thin material, covering Daphne to the wrist. She felt teeth on her shoulder, then a sucking breath against her skin, colder and sharper than a bite. His twitching meat was softening already and she let him go, his hips sagging without her to pin him to the tiles. When she took a half step back she watched her father slide down the wall, butt plopping onto the bathroom floor. The big wet cum splotch was hardly visible with how soaked his dress was. The white, creamy remains were quite evident on Daphne’s hand however, and she stared at it, mesmerised by the glistening, cloudy mess she had made. Of course she had to taste it.

The slimy, salty, cloying flavours of his sweet seed was the late night dessert Daphne suddenly craved. She had to lick her hand clean, washing her knuckles and palm, slurping the run down her wrist, tonging the gaps between her fingers. It tasted of everything she ever wanted. Dirty and decadent and all of it hers. All of him… she looked down at the dazed, little blond househusband on the bathroom floor. He wouldn’t be seventy pounds, soaking wet, although he did look pretty like that, half drowned and drunk.

Daphne lifted him up, threw him over a shoulder with ease. As he got carried out of the bathroom, her father would remember it as the first time she ever picked up after herself.