Carrie's Revelation

If you'd asked Carrie if she was a size queen, she'd have truthfully answered no. After all, if she had been, she wouldn't be with you. While you said on Tinder you packed a solid 7.5, both Carrie and you knew you barely could get up to 5 on a good day. And you still hadn't managed to really fuck her pussy properly, performing your best only when Carrie offered up her asshole.

You didn't measure up in other ways as well. You and Carrie were both slender and 5'7. She towered over you in heels. Your attempt to grow out a mustache was a wispy failure. And as Carrie kneeled, untying your dad's shoes, it confirmed the horrible truth you'd suspected your entire life: you were the lesser son of a greater sire.

She peeled off his socks and shoes, while he took off his shirt. He was hirsute, and she leaned forward, sniffing his chest. She paused and sniffed again, her nostrils flaring. Jesus, she thought. I could get high off his musk. He stood, towering over her at 6'5 and 270 pounds. She unfastened his big belt buckle and unzipped his jeans. She pulled his boxers down and exposed her prize: 8 and a half inches of the fattest cock she'd ever seen. A thick patch of mostly gray hairs covering his large, swollen balls. Her Daddy's perfect cock. She was in lust ... and maybe love.