Send him your daughters ig accounts

You felt so fucked up for this, but you also felt a deep, sickening thrill. A new kind of escape, a new line to cross. Your fingers trembled as you navigated away from the chat site and pulled up Instagram. You went to your own profile, found the photo you'd posted last summer, a picture of Kyler, Jason, and Elsa at the beach, all smiles and sun-drenched skin.

You copied the link. Then you went to Elsa's profile, a chaotic mess of selfies, concert snippets, and pictures with friends, her body often on display in a way that made you vaguely uncomfortable but you never said anything about. You copied that link too.

Back in the chat box, you pasted them both before you could second-guess yourself. "Here," you typed, your heart a frantic drum against your ribs. "Kyler's the older one in the family pic. The other link is my younger daughter, Elsa. Both should be out of my house, but now they're regressing in life."

The three dots appeared, indicating he was typing. The silence stretched, charged and heavy. Your cock, which had gone soft with the fatherly talk, began to stir again, a traitorous response to your own transgression.

"LonelyDad85: Damn. Kyler's a classic beauty. So wholesome. But Elsa... she's got that fire. That 'don't give a fuck' energy. I bet she's a handful."

You typed back, "You have no idea."

"LonelyDad85: She looks like she knows what she's doing. Bet she could drain a man's wallet and his soul, and he'd thank her for it."

Your breath hitched. His words mirrored your own earlier fantasy, the one about the OnlyFans sluts. You typed, "She's trouble."

"LonelyDad85: The best kind. Tell me, JohnDoe42... has she ever... you know. Accidentally walked in on you? Left a door open? Anything?"

The memory surfaces unbidden, sharp and clear. It was a few months ago. You were in your bedroom, pulling on a fresh pair of jeans after a shower. The door swung open without a knock. There stood Elsa, phone in hand, already talking. "Dad, have you seen my—"

She stopped dead. Her eyes, usually half-lidded with boredom, went wide for a split second as they swept over your bare chest, the trail of hair leading down from your navel, and the fact that you were half-dressed. It was barely a second. A flicker. Then her face smoothed back into its usual mask of indifference. "Never mind," she said, backing out and closing the door as if nothing had happened. But you felt it. That split-second glance.

You typed it out. Every detail. The half-open door. The sweep of her eyes. The sudden return to indifference.

"LonelyDad85: Holy shit. She was checking you out. You know she was."

Your hand moved to your crotch, the pressure of your own palm a grounding **** in the sea of rising taboo. "No, she's mind daughter."

"LonelyDad85: 'No' about it. Tell me what you thought about. In that second. Be honest."

You typed, your fingers flying across the keys now. "I thought... she looked like her mother when we were young. Before the mortgage and the back surgeries. Before everything. I could see the beautiful life that I created with my wife."

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