Her Father

Ben Harmon. Her father.

She had seen him more than once - accidentally, she’d told herself at first. The bathroom door left cracked while he showered. The way he walked down the upstairs hall late at night in nothing but a towel that didn’t quite close all the way. The heavy, thick shape of his cock hanging against his thigh, then hardening under the spray when he thought no one was watching. The dark thatch of hair at the base. The way it looked heavy even soft, and so much thicker when it wasn’t.

Violet’s fingers moved faster. She imagined wrapping her hand around it - her smaller fingers barely able to close all the way - feeling the heat of him, the pulse under the skin. Guiding the flushed head to her entrance. The first stretch as he pushed in, slow because it was her first time, because he would be careful even while he ruined her. The burn of being opened on her own father’s cock. The way she would take every inch until he was buried to the hilt and she was no longer a virgin.

Her clit throbbed under her fingertips. She fucked herself harder, chasing the image: Ben above her, jaw tight, eyes dark with something he wasn’t supposed to feel. The wet sound of him sliding in and out of her. The low, rough sound he would make when she clenched around him. How full she would feel. How wrong and perfect it would be.

She came hard, thighs locking, a broken little gasp trapped behind her teeth. Her fingers kept moving through the aftershocks, milking it, until she was too sensitive and had to stop.

Violet lay there afterward, chest rising and falling, the house settling around her like it approved.

She was starting to like it here. The creaks. The shadows. The way the walls seemed to keep secrets. She would never say that out loud to her parents—especially not to him. But alone in the dark, fingers still slick, the thought of her father’s cock still vivid behind her eyes, she didn’t have to pretend.