(Fictional) You're seriously still wearing that

I've been away for a while had a break from life over Christmas, it gave me some time to sit back and write some fictional works, so i hope you enjoy, as always your support is appreciated, you can buy me a coffee or leave me a donation, there is a pay pal short link in my bio, enjoy........ as always feedback and collaborations are always welcome, all people in any of my works are over the legal age.

"You're seriously still wearing that?" Sarah snorted, flicking the spaghetti strap of my barely-there nightie. The thin fabric barely covered my nipples, let alone the flushed skin beneath.

I shrugged, swirling the melting ice in my glass. "It's hot. And it's not like anyone's gonna see me except you." The caravan's AC had given out hours ago, leaving everything sticky on my thighs, the leather couch, and the condensation rings on the side table.

Sarah rolled her eyes and flopped onto the lumpy pull-out bed, her third tequila sunrise sloshing dangerously in her grip. "You say that now, but Dad gets up at, like, five to 'check the tides' or whatever sad middle-aged man's hobby he’s got now." She mimed air quotes, then dissolved into giggles.

I swallowed the thought of Martin, his thick forearms, the way his shirt always rode up when he reached for things, making my stomach swoop. "He’s not that old," I muttered, but Sarah was already halfway to passing out, her phone slipping from her fingers onto the carpet.

The ice in my glass cracked as I took another sip, the sound too loud in the quiet caravan. Sarah’s breathing had evened out, her mouth slightly open, one arm flung over her face. I nudged her phone under the bed with my toe, no sense in her rolling onto it later, and padded toward the kitchenette, the frayed hem of my nightie brushing my thighs. The fridge hummed like a tired old man, and when I opened it, the light flickered. Behind me, the floor creaked.

"Couldn’t sleep?" Martin’s voice was low, rougher than usual, like he’d been sitting out on the deck. I turned, my back pressing against the fridge door. He was leaning against the counter, shirtless, his sweatpants slung low enough to show the trail of dark hair leading south. The dim light caught the silver in his stubble, the lines around his eyes. My pulse thudded in my throat.

"Too hot," I said, and it wasn’t a lie. The air between us was thick enough to **** on. He reached past me for a beer, his forearm brushing my bare shoulder. The contact burned deep in my soul.

He popped the cap off with his keyring, took a swig, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Sarah’s out cold, huh?" His gaze dropped to my chest, where the flimsy fabric did nothing to hide my now bullet-hard nipples.

I felt his gaze like a physical touch, hot and deliberate. My breath hitched as his fingers lingered near the fridge handle, so close to my hip I could feel the heat radiating off his skin. "Yeah," I murmured, barely recognizing my own voice. "She had a few too many. And is now out cold." The words sounded stupid the moment they left my mouth, obvious and unnecessary. But Martin didn't seem to care. He took another slow swig from his beer, his throat working, eyes never leaving mine.

The fridge door bumped shut behind me, sealing us in the cramped kitchenette. The space was suddenly too small, every accidental brush of his arm against my shoulder sending sparks down my spine. He exhaled sharply through his nose, a rough sound that made my knees weak. "You should be careful," he said, low and gravelly. "Walking around like that." His thumb traced the rim of his bottle, slow and deliberate. "Might give a man ideas."

I bit my lip, my pulse hammering so loud I was sure he could hear it. "What kind of ideas?" The question slipped out before I could stop it, bold and breathless. His fingers stilled on the bottle. For a heartbeat, the only sound was Sarah’s faint snoring from the other room.

Then he moved. One step, then another, crowding me back against the counter until the edge dug into my lower back. His free hand came up, fingers brushing the delicate strap of my nightie. "The kind that’ll get you and me in trouble," he murmured, tugging the strap down just enough to expose the curve of my shoulder. His calloused thumb skimmed over the sensitive skin there, and I shuddered and let out a sigh.

The strap slipped further, the fabric pooling at my elbow, and Martin’s gaze darkened as he took in the exposed swell of my breast. His thumb traced the line where skin met lace, the touch featherlight but searing. "Christ," he muttered, more to himself than to me, his grip tightening on the beer bottle. I could smell the salt on his skin from earlier, mixed with something darker, a pure want. My breath hitched when his fingers grazed my nipple, the contact electric even through the flimsy material.

"You gonna stop me?" His voice was rough, testing, but the challenge in it made my stomach flip. I shook my head, too horny to speak, and his mouth curled into a smirk. The bottle clinked onto the counter as he freed his other hand, both now sliding up my sides, mapping the dip of my waist, the flare of my hips. "Good girl," he murmured, and the praise sent a bolt of heat straight to my core as my pussy started to drip.

Then his mouth was on mine, hot and insistent, his stubble scraping my chin as his tongue pushed past my lips. I whimpered into the kiss, my fingers tangling in his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan. He bit my lower lip, sharp and possessive, before pulling back to yank the nightie down the rest of the way. The fabric tore at the seam with a soft rip, pooling at my feet, leaving me bare under the flickering kitchen light.

His hands were everywhere, kneading my tits, pinching my nipples until I arched into him, his palm sliding down to cup me through my soaked panties. "Fuck," he growled, fingers hooking into the lace and tearing them aside. The sound of fabric giving way was obscene, and I gasped as his fingers plunged into me without warning, thick and relentless. "You’re dripping for me already?" His breath was hot against my ear, his fingers curling just right, dragging a moan from my throat. "Fuck me."

Martin’s fingers twisted inside me, his palm grinding against my clit in rough circles that had my thighs trembling. I clutched at his shoulders, nails digging into his skin, but he only laughed a dark, satisfied sound that sent a fresh wave of heat through me. "Look at you," he murmured, dragging his free hand up to wrap around my throat. "Fucking yourself on my fingers like a little whore." His grip tightened just enough to make my vision blur at the edges, and I whimpered, my hips jerking against him.

The counter bit into my back as he leaned closer, his breath hot against my parted lips. "You want more?" he asked, though it wasn’t really a question. His fingers slid out of me with a wet sound, and before I could protest, he had me spun around, bent over the laminate countertop with my ass in the air. His sweatpants rustled as he shoved them down, and then the thick head of his cock was dragging through my slick folds, teasing. "Beg," he ordered, giving my ass a sharp smack that echoed in the tiny kitchen.

I didn’t hesitate. "Please, Daddy," I gasped, pressing back against him. "Need you inside me fuck me." The word dissolved into a moan as he impaled himself in one brutal thrust, stretching me open in a way that bordered on pain. My fingers scrambled for purchase on the counter as he set a punishing pace, each snap of his hips driving me to the edge. The sound of skin slapping skin mingled with my choked-out whimpers, and when his hand grabbed my hair, yanking my head back, I saw stars.

"Such a tight little cunt," he growled, his other hand splayed over my lower back, holding me in place. "Going to fuck you hard." He punctuated the words with a deeper thrust that had me crying out, my toes curling against the linoleum. The fridge rattled behind us, the vibration traveling up my spine as he fucked me harder, faster, until the counter was slick with my sweat. I could feel him everywhere, his breath on my neck, his cock splitting me open, the rough press of his wedding band against my hip where his hand gripped me.

His fingers dug into my hips hard enough to bruise as he pulled me back onto him with every thrust, the slap of skin echoing off the caravan’s cheap laminate cabinets. The fridge shuddered against my shoulder blades, the vibration mingling with the choked-out whimpers I couldn’t stop. "Daddy fuck me," I gasped, my fingers slipping on the condensation-slick counter. Martin grunted something filthy in response, his free hand sliding up to clamp over my mouth, muffling me as he drove deeper.

The pressure was unbearable, his cock pounding into me, his thumb circling my clit in rough, uneven strokes until suddenly it wasn’t. My orgasm ripped through me like a live wire, my back arching violently as I came around him with a muffled scream. He didn’t let up, fucking me through it until my legs shook, his grip on my jaw tightening. "That’s it," he rasped, his breath hot against my ear. "Take it like a good slut."

I barely had time to catch my breath before he was spinning me around, lifting me onto the counter like I weighed nothing. The edge bit into my bare ass as he shoved my thighs apart, his thumbs hooking into the creases of my knees to spread me wider. His cock glistened with my juices, and the sight of it, slick and flushed, made my stomach flip. "Look at you," he muttered, dragging the head through my folds again, teasing. "Ruined already, and I’m not done with you."

Then he was inside me again, my legs locked around his waist as he fucked up into me with slow, deliberate strokes. The angle was deeper like this, every thrust grinding against something that had my toes curling. His hands slid up to my throat, not squeezing, just holding, his thumbs resting against my pulse. "You like that?" he demanded, his voice rough. "Like being Daddy’s little fucktoy?" I nodded frantically, my nails scoring down his back, and he smirked, picking up the pace.

Martin’s hands tightened around my throat just enough to make my vision blur at the edges, his hips snapping forward with a **** that rattled the cheap laminate counter beneath me. “Look at you,” he growled, his breath hot and ragged against my ear. “Taking it like you were made for this.” The words sent a fresh wave of heat through me, my nails digging into his shoulders as he drove deeper, each thrust hitting that spot that made my toes curl. The fridge hummed against my back, its vibrations mingling with the filthy slap of skin on skin, the sound obscenely loud in the cramped kitchenette.

I could feel him everywhere: the rough press of his hands against my hip, the sweat-slicked heat of his chest against mine, the way his cock stretched me open in a way that bordered on pain. My thighs trembled around his waist, my heels digging into the small of his back as if I could pull him even closer. “Daddy,” I gasped, the word dissolving into a moan as he twisted his fingers in my hair, yanking my head back to expose my throat. His teeth scraped the sensitive skin there, and I shuddered, my hips jerking against his.

“That’s it,” he rasped, his voice rough with approval. “Let me hear you.” His grip on my hair tightened, and I whimpered, the sting only fuelling the fire coiling low in my belly. The counter beneath me was slick with sweat, the edge digging into my ass, but I barely registered the discomfort, not when he was fucking me like this, as he owned me, like he’d break me apart if he wanted to. And God, I wanted him to.

His pace stuttered for a heartbeat, his breath hitching, and I knew he was close. “Where do you want me to cum?” I started, but he cut me off with a brutal thrust that stole the air from my lungs. “Inside,” he gritted out, his fingers tightening around my throat. “Going to fill you up, little slut. Make you take it all.” The words sent a jolt through me, my walls clenching around him as if to pull him deeper. He groaned, his hips stuttering, and then he was coming, hot and thick, his cock pulsing inside me as he emptied himself with a ragged curse.

Martin’s hips jerked erratically, his fingers digging into my thighs as he spilled into me with a groan that sounded almost pained. I could feel him twitching inside me, every pulse sending another hot rush against my walls. My own climax crashed over me again, less violent this time but no less intense, my body milking him greedily as I clenched around him. He shuddered, his forehead dropping to my shoulder as he caught his breath, his sweat cooling against my skin.

For a moment, neither of us moved. The caravan was silent except for the fridge and our ragged breathing. Then, slowly, he pulled out, his cock glistening with me, with us, and I bit my lip at the sudden emptiness, the warm trickle down my thighs. Martin’s thumb swiped through the mess, his gaze dark as he brought it to my lips. “Clean it up,” he ordered, his voice rough. I didn’t hesitate, my tongue darting out to lick his finger clean, the taste of us sharp and salty. His smirk was smug, satisfied, as he wiped the rest off on my thigh.

The reality of what we’d just done hit me like a bucket of ice water. Sarah was right there, her faint snores still audible from the pull-out bed. My stomach twisted, but not with guilt, with something hotter, darker. The thrill of almost getting caught. Martin seemed to read my mind, his hand sliding up to cup my jaw. “She’s not waking up,” he murmured, his thumb brushing my lower lip. “Not unless you scream loud enough.” The implication sent a fresh jolt between my legs, and he chuckled, low and knowing. “Next time.”

The words curled in my chest like a promise. He stepped back, pulling his sweatpants up with a casualness that shouldn’t have been as hot as it was, and grabbed his beer from the counter. I slid off the laminate, my legs shaky, my panties long gone, torn and discarded somewhere near the fridge. Martin took a swig, his eyes raking over my bare body with a possessiveness that made my skin prickle. “You should get some sleep,” he said, though his tone suggested he’d rather keep me up all night.

The caravan’s cheap blinds let in thin strips of dawn light, stripping the rumpled sheets where I lay sprawled, sticky-thighed and still thrumming from Martin’s hands. Sarah’s snores had tapered off into soft breaths, her back turned to me. I stared at the water stain on the ceiling, tracing its shape like a map of all the places his mouth had been. My pulse hadn’t slowed since he’d left me here an hour ago, his parting grip on my hip firm enough to leave fingerprints.

The shower hissed to life down the hall, pipes groaning. I pictured him under the spray, water sluicing off his shoulders, his cock half hard again just from the memory of me. The thought sent a fresh slickness between my legs. I shifted, the sheet rasping against oversensitive skin, and bit back a whimper. Next time, he’d said. Like it was inevitable. Like I wasn’t already ruined for anyone else.

Sarah stirred, rolling onto her stomach with a groan. “Ugh. My head.” She blinked blearily at me, her mascara smudged into raccoon circles. “Why’re you awake? You didn’t even drink.” Her voice was sleepy, accusing.

I **** a yawn, stretching my arms above my head like my muscles didn’t ache in the best ways. “The AC's still broken. It’s like a sauna in here.” The lie came easy, smooth as the sweat still drying on my collarbones.

Sarah groaned again, pressing her forehead into the pillow. "God, I feel like I got hit by a bus." She squinted at me, her gaze dragging over my bare legs, the sheet tangled around my waist. "Why do you look like you just got laid?"

My pulse stuttered. I rolled onto my side, hiding the faint bruises Martin’s fingers had left on my hip. "Probably because I didn’t drink myself into a coma," I shot back, too quickly. The shower cut off with a squeak of pipes, and Sarah’s eyes flicked toward the sound.

"Dad’s up early," she muttered, dragging herself upright. Her hair was a disaster, her tank top twisted. She winced as sunlight sliced through the blinds. "Ugh. I need coffee. Or ****."

I followed her into the kitchenette, hyper aware of every creak in the floorboards, every stray sound. The counter where Martin had bent me over last night was spotless now; the only evidence was a faint stickiness under my palms when I leaned against it. Sarah rummaged in the cupboard, her movements sluggish. "We’re out of filters," she announced, holding up the empty box like it was a personal betrayal.

The bathroom door clicked open, steam curling into the hallway as Martin stepped out with a towel slung low around his hips. Water droplets clung to the silver in his stubble, his chest still flushed from the heat. My mouth went dry. His gaze flicked to me just for a second, but it was enough to make my thighs press together.

"Morning," he said, gruff, like he hadn’t had me screaming into his palm hours ago. Sarah barely glanced up from her futile coffee search.

"Dad, we’re out of filters," she whined, rubbing her temples.

Martin rolled his eyes and reached past her, his arm brushing mine. A jolt shot down my spine. "Bottom drawer," he said, pulling out a French press. "Use this."

Sarah groaned, slumping against the counter as Martin filled the kettle. "I hate that thing," she muttered, but she scooped coffee into the press anyway, her movements sluggish. I busied myself with slicing strawberries, the knife trembling in my grip every time Martin passed too close. His towel had ridden up when he leaned over to grab sugar, revealing a sliver of the taut muscle I’d dug my nails into last night. My throat went tight.

"Here." Sarah shoved a mug at me, sloshing lukewarm coffee onto my wrist. "You’re being weird today." Her gaze lingered on my neck, where Martin’s stubble had left a faint pink scrape. I tugged the collar of my borrowed hoodie higher.

"Just tired," I lied, stirring my coffee with unnecessary focus. The French press sat between us like an accusation, its plunger still bearing the imprint of Martin’s thumb where he’d pressed it down hard before handing it to Sarah.

Martin cleared his throat. "Tide’s coming in," he said, nodding toward the window where seagulls wheeled over the beach. "Good day for a swim." His knuckles brushed my lower back as he reached for the fridge, the contact fleeting enough that Sarah didn’t notice, but it sent a shockwave straight to my core. I bit my lip hard enough to taste copper.

The first sip of coffee burned my tongue, but I barely registered it, not with Martin’s thumbprint still warm on the press, not with the way his thigh brushed mine under the table when Sarah turned to grab milk. He didn’t look at me, just spread jam on his toast with deliberate slowness, but the corner of his mouth twitched when my knee jostled his. A silent game. A fucking thrill.

Sarah yawned into her palm. "I’m going to nap after this. My head’s killing me." She squinted at me over her mug. "You okay? You’re twitchy."

Martin’s foot hooked around my ankle under the table, dragging me closer. I choked on my coffee. "Fine," I coughed, wiping my mouth. "Just... sand in my shoes."

Sarah rolled her eyes and pushed her chair back. "I’m going back to bed. Don’t wake me unless there’s a tsunami." She shuffled off, her flip-flops slapping against her heels.

The second Sarah’s door clicked shut, Martin’s hand was on my knee, fingers digging in with the same possessive pressure they’d used between my thighs hours ago. His coffee sat untouched, steam curling between us like a dare. "Sand in your shoes?" he murmured, thumb tracing the inside of my knee. "That’s the best you could come up with?"

I swallowed hard, the pulse in my throat hammering under his scrutiny. "You were distracting me," I whispered, nodding toward where his thigh pressed insistently against mine.

His grin was wolfish. "Good."

The rest is for another time.