Stacy Goes to Him

The motel on 3rd had a flickering neon sign and peeling paint on the doorframes. I stood outside room 7 for a full minute before knocking, my hand resting on the curve of my belly. Five months. Visible through any fabric.

The door opened. My father stood in the gap, shirtless, his lean frame thinner than I remembered. The salt-and-pepper stubble had grown into a rough beard. His eyes widened when he saw me.

“Stacy.” His voice cracked. “What are you doing here?”

“You touched my belly yesterday. You said things.” I met his gaze. “We need to talk about it.”

He stepped aside. The room was small—a double bed with a faded floral spread, a lamp on the nightstand, a half-empty bottle of whiskey on the dresser. I sat on the edge of the bed, my sundress pooling around my thighs.

He sat across from me in the single chair, elbows on his knees, hands clasped.

“I shouldn’t have said those things,” he said. “I was out of line.”

“You weren’t wrong.”

The words hung between us. His eyes dropped to my belly, traced the curve, the way my breasts rested heavier against the fabric.

“Stacy—”

“I’ve been thinking about it all night,” I said. “About what you said. About the way you looked at me.”

He stood, crossed to the window. His back was to me, the muscles tense under his skin. “You’re my daughter.”

“And Grandpa is my grandfather. And Mr. Dewitt is old enough to be my grandfather too.” I paused. “Blood doesn’t stop want. That’s what Grandpa said.”

He turned. His eyes were wet, his jaw tight. “This is different.”

“Is it?”

The room was silent. The neon sign flickered through the blinds, casting red and blue stripes across the floor.

He crossed to me in three strides. Knelt before me. His hands found my knees, squeezed.

“I’ve been alone for two years,” he said, his voice rough. “No one to hold. No one to touch. And then I see you—pregnant, full of life, glowing—and I can’t think straight.”

“Then stop thinking.”

His breath caught. His hands slid up my thighs, pushing the hem of my sundress higher. The fabric bunched around my hips, exposing my belly, round and pale in the dim light.

He stared at it. At the curve stretched tight over our child—or his father’s child. At the life growing inside me, mixed from the seed of the men who had claimed me.

He leaned forward. Pressed his mouth against the swell.

The kiss was soft. Reverent. His lips lingered, warm against my skin. The baby kicked, a hard thump against his cheek. He laughed, a broken, wet sound.

“The baby knows me,” he whispered.

“He does.”

His hands spread across my belly, fingers splaying wide. He kissed again, lower this time, near the base of the curve. Then lower still, pressing his mouth to the fabric covering my mound.

“Dad—”

“Don’t talk.” His voice was hoarse. “Just let me—let me taste you.”

He pushed my panties aside. His mouth found my folds, his tongue pressing against my clit. The sensation was sharp, immediate. I gasped, my hands finding his hair.

He licked with hunger, with years of loneliness poured into each stroke. His tongue circled, flattened, pressed deeper. The pleasure built fast, fed by the wrongness, the strangeness, the weight of his mouth on me.

“I’ve wanted this,” he said against my skin. “I’ve wanted to taste you since I saw you in that kitchen.”

His tongue delved deeper, lapping at my entrance. I felt myself respond, felt the wetness gathering. He groaned, the vibration traveling through me.

“You’re so wet,” he said. “So ready.”

He pulled back, stood, unbuckled his belt. His trousers fell. His cock was hard—thick, veined, the head flushed dark. Different from Grandpa’s, different from Mr. Dewitt’s. Longer, perhaps. Straighter.

He knelt again, positioned himself between my thighs. The head of his cock pressed against my entrance.

“Stacy.” His voice broke. “Tell me you want this.”

I looked at him. At my father, kneeling before me, his cock pressing against the place where his father and his landlord had filled me countless times. At the hunger in his eyes, the need he’d carried for two years.

“I want it,” I said. “I want you inside me.”

He pushed in.

The stretch was immediate, familiar yet new. He was different from the others—slightly thinner, but longer, reaching deeper. He filled me completely, and I cried out at the sensation.

“Oh God,” he breathed. “You’re so tight. So warm.”

He began to move. Slow, deep strokes that rocked my body on the edge of the bed. His hands gripped my hips, pulling me onto him with each thrust. The sound of our bodies filled the small room.

His mouth found mine. The kiss was hungry, desperate, tongue sliding against tongue. I tasted myself on his lips.

“I’m inside you,” he said, pulling back. “I’m inside my daughter.”

“Yes.”

His pace quickened. His hand found my clit, rubbing in rough circles. The pleasure built, cresting, breaking.

“Come,” he said. “Come on my cock.”

I shattered. My body convulsed around him, a cry tearing from my throat. He thrust deeper, held, and I felt the first pulse—hot, thick, flooding me.

His seed pumped into me, wave after wave. He groaned, his hips pressing deep, holding himself there. The warmth spread through my pelvis, pooling, settling.

He stayed inside, breathing hard. His forehead pressed against mine.

“I filled you,” he whispered. “I filled my daughter.”

His cock softened, slipped out. The wetness followed, warm against my thigh.

He pulled back, looked at my belly. His seed leaked from me, trickling down the curve. He reached out, caught it on his finger, brought it to his mouth.

“Mine,” he said. “Part of me, inside you.”

I lay back on the bed, my hand pressing against my stomach. The baby kicked. His seed was warm and deep, mixing with everything that had come before.

He lay beside me, his hand covering mine on my belly.

“What now?” he asked.

I stared at the ceiling. The neon flickered. The room smelled of sex and whiskey.