Darling Daddy Dearest

Darling Daddy Dearest

 

The sweetest Fruit is always Forbidden

 

R.R. Ryan

 

© Copyright 2025 by R.R. Ryan

 

NOTE: This work contains material not suitable for anyone under eighteen (18) or those of a delicate nature. This is a story and contains descriptive scenes of a graphic, sexual nature. This is a work of fiction. Unless otherwise indicated, all the names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents in this book are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

 

Darling Daddy Dearest

Chapter One: In the Beginning

From Carol Ann’s Private Diary

So, you’ll understand if you find this, I started this diary to keep my secrets and actions private. This work relates nothing and everything about my daily life back in those days. I’m writing now, looking back, and when I look at the Diary I kept (on my laptop) back when all this happened, I found nothing about this. Not one whit of any of these is there. It’s too personal, too intimate, too spot on about Edward and me.

The only love of my life.

Even now, with my belly swollen with my first child, and Donald so very happy he is about to be a father, I won’t share the truth with him. I can’t. He isn’t Edward, which means he isn’t Daddy, and never will be. If I hurt his feelings, I don’t believe we’d survive it. I love him, but not in the right way. I’m fond of him, honestly, I am, very deeply so, and we do make love.

But then again, we don’t. What we do, do, is go through the motions of love making, and I fake enjoyment. There is some physical pleasure, but it isn’t emotional, profound, or spiritual. Those are still reserved for my darling Daddy dearest, my soulmate. The feelings started in my 16th year but didn’t take form until my 18th.

A quiet intimacy thrived between us, something near secrets, perhaps a little beyond. A daughter should love her father; I understood that. I loved mine far deeper than what’s required. When Mom left him, left us, it should have pulled us apart. But we grew tighter, an intense and urgent two-strand cord that wound around itself, a bond meant to last forever.

By summer’s end, it shifted beneath the surface. A different kind of tension, unsettling and thrilling, took root. I wanted to tell him, but I plotted to own him in place of admitting the truth. I’d become more than his daughter, more than his lover.

We’d be soulmates.

It manifested first as a new restlessness, a hunger gnawing away at everything I’d believed firmly fixed and familiar. The kind of love I wanted became harder to define. What began as a constant but unspoken closeness between us contracted, tightening into new forms. I didn’t name it… the name can’t be given until the bond binds us. I didn’t understand how to tell him.

It scared me how effortlessly I let Mom go, how I didn’t miss her at all. It scared me more how little Father missed her, how little we both needed her. It frightened me most that neither of us cared.

A stranger might’ve seen what grew between Dad and me and thought that a daughter and father shouldn’t’ve been so close. I loved how much we needed each other, how his attention focused on me. Finally mine, Daddy and I a thing beyond father and daughter in my mind.

There came one awkward moment when Mother tried to explain, her voice lifting just above the familiar whine. “You’ll be better off, all of you.”

By then, neither of us really listened to her. After all, I’d already imagined the new version of us, casting Edward and Carol Ann in the roles of an invincible team. In time, we’d need no one else.

Dad packed her things into heavy boxes while she slept with a man whose name I could never remember. If I wanted to, I could’ve, but I didn’t want to. Sliding the dispenser over the lid, I taped them shut. Boxing her memory inside and shoving it out of my heart.

I found more satisfaction in the adhesive’s rip than I’d expected. The next morning, Debra drove off, bound for something other than the world she left behind. It slipped away as soon as she turned the corner. She’d been out of the picture for a while.

I remembered the exact moment I realized I could have him all to myself. He’d called it an adventure.

“Nothing but the open road and no responsibilities,” he said. “Just us.”

My father’s eyes were blue and bright, sea-foam dappled by sunshine, and I realized he’d never say no. I understood, right then, that I’d love him forever.

Two hours later, his old pickup truck coughed and wheezed its way onto the highway, held together by sheer stubbornness. That summer began. We crossed half the state, skirting its perimeter like explorers with nowhere specific to be.

We found oceans, mountains, dark and silent places that wrapped themselves around us and drew us closer and closer. I discovered something else, too.

By the end of the trip, something unsaid but immense stood between us. Something changed, for me at least. I didn’t know how to admit that I loved Edward, really loved my darling Daddy dearest most of all.

The happy-ever-after kind of love.

On the last night, before the long stretch of highway pulled us back toward home, he fell asleep under the stars. They spangled the sky like bright fragments of his own impossible promises. I imagined they were all for me. Sapphires, emeralds, and diamonds, all of them a gift from him to me.

Later in the night, much later, I watched him breathe. A beautiful moment for me. Therefore, it wasn’t quite enough. A restlessness took over, but not the kind I could easily relieve. As an alternative, I let it grow, like seeds planted in furtive, unexamined corners of myself. An ache moved through me in sharp little bursts, warm and urgent, far too much to ignore.

Every night, I reached down and pressed the heat away with my hand. I pressed it, fiercely, to something more than longing. I pictured his face, its lines made angular and dramatic by shadows and moonlight, so close I could feel his breath on my skin. For one perfect moment, he turned into the only thing in my universe.

In my mind, we moved in perfect unison as lovers. I pleased him with my mouth and my body. And Edward, Daddy, the powerful lover, did the same with me. When the tension broke, I understood that I could never tell him. I edged past sixteen on my way to eighteen.

Edging became my thing, I discovered the joy of self-pleasuring. The wonderful, magical kingdom of masturbation. The thing you do when you can’t have the real deal.

The beginning dragged itself into years. Each one carried more of that same impossible wanting, the heavy burden of desires I couldn’t put into words. Not yet anyway. When I turned 18, I developed a plan.

When we got home from spring break, I couldn’t sleep for days. It became Edward’s fault, and I loved Daddy even more for it. He consumed my thoughts, waking fantasies, dreamscapes, and all the unfilled spaces in between. Nothing existed outside us.

The nights and days when I pictured him in absolute detail. All hard edges and strong lines. Tall, fit, and impossibly perfect. I imagined his rough workman’s hands reaching toward me, making every square inch of me his own. I envisioned us in endless repetitions of futures I hadn’t begun to live, happy endings that redefined my entire world.

I waited for him to notice, but he didn’t. I should have said something. Rather than that, I began testing his limits, always a little too scared to cross them, always wanting too anyway. I watched him.

I examined Daddy as if he were performance art, a gorgeous and unattainable thing, something always out of reach. And like art, it took a while to find its meaning.

In the meantime, I did everything but tell him. Humping my pillow, panda bear’s foot, or my hand.

It started small. A touch on Daddy’s shoulder lingered. An unbuttoned blouse, which he accidentally turned, caught a glimpse of tits, with me smiling. A little more lipstick than he thought appropriate for school. And Daddy realized it been dressed that way at school.

An innocent grazing of fingers when I handed him his morning coffee or evening beer. It developed all too easy, scrutinizing him, a specimen under a microscope, tense and shifting in his seat. Holy shit on a cracker, I made him uncomfortable. Delicious, sweet treats.

He’d say things like, “Sweetheart, I do love you,” when my pout pushed past the edges of reason. Blinded by his view of right and wrong, Daddy didn’t appreciate what I meant.

“You know I love you, don’t you?” I asked.

He’d smile and muss my hair, a sign of nothing wrong here, how it should be.

Then the openly dating other women began. Women I’d never seen before filled his weekends, our time, and his thoughts. I heard them laughing on the other side of the all-too-thin walls. Worse than that, I listen to them fucking.

Anger and jealousy rose, choking and vile it my throat. I heard Edward fucking them. I realized Daddy’s passion wasn’t directed at me. I thought my mind would crack under its weight. But anger has ways of shifting its shape. Desire, too.

If it’s possible to seethe and crave at the same time, I managed. I’d never been so aware of myself as when Daddy brought women home. Never so alive as when they made their exits.

When he thought I slept and supposed I blissfully slumbered unaware of his rutting’s. The sounds they made mixed with my own fantasies. They drove me to the edge and pushed me over it. That line I’d never dared to cross grew closer and closer, not the impassable chasm I thought it would be.

And my attempts at seduction grew bolder. It became a game.

That night began like any other. I’d waited up, breathless with impatience, sick with the worry that my strategy wasn’t working. When he came through the door, just after ten, the darkness of my room gave way to half-light as moved to the top of the stairs.

The sight of me stopped him in his tracks. It started right at that instant. My skirt shorter than it had ever been, and my blouse barely there at all. I held it together, feigning modesty, hoping it would drive him crazy. He turned his head, avoiding a wreck. But Edward wanted to look. And Daddy didn’t dare.

Moving down the stairs, slinking really, I followed him to the kitchen, hungrier than I’d ever been.

“Thought you had a date,” I said.

I loved how the words made him flinch and how my voice took on the mocking timbre of discovered secrets. The women he dated were no secret to me. Nothing he did remained undisclosed to me. He stood at the fridge longer than he should’ve. Almost as if it might tell him what to say. Akin to he might actually eat.

“What’s for dinner?” he asked.

“You went on a date. I’ve already eaten.”

He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, nervous and adorable. A teenager who didn’t know what to do with his hands, only he wasn’t a teen. The smile he offered clung to his lips, helpless, and sort of sweet. Kind of maddening.

I perched on the counter and let the hem of my skirt ride a little higher. It seemed dangerous. I adored it.

“Date, Edward, darling Daddy, what happened?”

“Bailed early,” he said, eyes on the floor. “You didn’t have to wait up.”

Chance favors the bold, I took it.

Turning up the heat, I bit my lip, slid down from the counter, slipped into a new version of myself, and let him finish the game. I moved across the kitchen and into Edward’s space, watching Daddy try to find a safe place to put his eyes. He couldn’t.

“Who’s waiting?” I asked. The innocent act came as easy as breathing.

His stare turned from wreck to train-wreck, eyes focused and wild, and he let them wander to all the places he never let them go before. For a split second, I saw his resolve collapse. His shoulders followed.

He gripped my arms, jerked me from the counter, and spun me around. He held me like he didn’t understand whether to let go or hold on tighter. With his free hand he yanked a chair from its place at the table. Then bent over it.

The wood chair pressed hard under my belly, his hands large and firm against my back as he pressed me down. It didn’t hurt yet, but it would. I braced myself, half thrilled, half afraid he’d lose his nerve.

“Daddy,” I whimpered, to see what he’d do.

He froze.

It might have been hours or seconds before he found the courage to bring his hand down on my ass. Lightly. It barely stung, but more than enough to leave its mark inside me. Heat spread through me, warmth and triumph. He’d crossed the line, finally.

His palm came down again, harder this time, just above the edge of my panties. And again, just below. And again, and again, and again. The blows blurred together as he built momentum, soft sounds lost between sharp strikes. I’d never been more certain of anything than about his next move.

When it ended, he stepped back as if I were on fire. Fearing that I might burn him.

“Go to your room,” he said. Edward thought his voice sounded firm, the command of a father disciplining a wayward child. I heard it as something else. We both realized he wouldn’t let this happen again. He thought I’d learned my lesson.

I pitied his naivety, Daddy dearest hadn’t any idea of what I’d planned to come after this. I bit back a smile, forced a cry, ran to my room, and slammed the door more alive than I’d ever been. Good lord, fucking wet, so dripping wet inside, in between my legs.

Panda took my hunger, and I left a wet stain on his big ole panda foot.

He must have thought it over. That rebellion had failed. He slouched against the bedroom wall, a soft thud followed by breathing the same short breaths he used to take when he said goodbye to his dates.

I listened to the zipper of his jeans give way to all the pent-up tension of a night he couldn’t escape. I listened when his big hand wrapped around his cock and beat the fuck out of it. A beautiful expression of his want.

My panties slipped off with little resistance. I pressed myself against the wall, letting its coolness and Edward’s tortured gasps seep through my body. His chair clattered to the floor. It barely registered. The only sounds were those of our quickened breath, his cock against his palm, my slick, ready pussy rubbed furiously on Teddy’s foot.

He didn’t appreciate how thin the walls were. He didn’t grasp how close to climax he’d pushed me. He thought I cried from him punishing me. He’d disciplined himself with his own dinnerless solitude. He had no idea that my punishment fit my crime too perfectly.

The harder he worked his dong, the wetter I got. He grunted and groaned, loud and strained whispered hankering shuddered words rose above everything he should’ve kept quiet. Above the fast, frenzied rush of blood in my own ears. I tried to be quiet, trying not to make a sound. He left me with no choice.

I couldn’t hold back. I didn’t want to. Poor Teddy hadn’t been so fucked so hard ever.

I let him hear me, loud enough to give his plans a voice, a purpose, a reason to keep at it. He couldn’t possibly ignore it. Or me. Holy fucking shit, he edged so close to the event. We crept so close. He didn’t stop, even when he recognized it. He didn’t stop, and I came so hard it hurt.

We came together, in separate rooms but not quite apart, and it the best thing I’d ever experienced. Passion more than he ever admitted, more than either of us claimed. The impossible to obtain, obtained in unison, soulmates. Perfection pure, simple profound union of two into one.

This made it simple to comprehend it worked.

Weeks passed, and I kept on with my assault on Daddy. Spring, my senior year, the time when I stopped seeing boys altogether. Sometimes, I hung out with friends. Other times, I stayed home all the time and kept my best friend, my pretend lover, my Daddy company. When I got too fresh with him, he spanked me.

To me, my punishment amounted to nothing, but a love note. Daddy liked reminding me who owned me. Who ran to his house, his home, who’s the father, and who’s the daughter? I, and my body, the bosses so to conquer Edward and make him our slave.

I always realized how and when to push it a step further. We no longer had class on Fridays. So I did the chores on those days.

He’d look at me like I’d ruined him. Glaring at his bad girl, darling Daddy, took his belt off. Pulled the chair out. That day, he came home in a foul mood. Late, who knows why. But the dinner had warmed too long, and when I reheated it, I created a FUBAR. You understand, right, Fucked up beyond all recognition.

“You know what to do.”

He’d made me spend Friday running ragged. Cleaning. Shopping. Exercising. Putting away laundry. Making his damn dinner. When he came home, I’d already guessed his following words.

“It’s tough as leather.”

“I’m sorry, Daddy,” I said with a mock frown.

This time, he’d shocked me. That time, he pulled my tight lil’ shorts and panties down. One of his hands on my back, holding me down, the other holding the belt. Daddy’s staring at my bare ass and going to use a belt on it not his hand.

Honestly, I barely breathed when he did it. Bare skin to air. Shock to confusion. I remember the way he said I knew what to do. He had a hungry heat in his voice. He’d never stripped me before, but my body already loved his touch. Daddy’s the only man ever waited for. I bent over.

Made myself the bad girl. I remember the glint of his belt buckle. My mouth was a dry, sobbing desert.

I remember trying to explain that it wasn’t my fault. Edward’s burning frown, searing me, saying I should have known.

Daddy said, “Sixteen strokes for my baby girl.”

I hadn’t realized sixteen strokes would seem like a hundred. Hadn’t discovered pain and pleasure mixed into the same thing until that moment. My day already gave me my punishment. Cleaning his mess from the floors and windows, washing his sheets, clothes, and sorting everything.

Scrubbing until my hands bled into a steaming bucket. Shopping in the afternoon in downtown LA for his food and his clothing. Remembering all his favorite things while I sweated through my shirt.

Worrying over dinner as the minutes ticked away. By the time Daddy dearest got home, I hadn’t eaten but full already with more than food.

“I think you forgot the exercise, too. Maybe I should do that for you,” Daddy said, and grinned. He’d laughed at me when I thought my schedule would prevent him from beating my but. This time he didn’t laugh at all.

Sometimes Daddy punished me when I had done nothing wrong. I believed he did it to remind me he could. Sometimes he didn’t even bother to invent an excuse.

“You’re mine,” he said. “Do I need a reason?”

This time, I already perceived his reason before he said it. He picked at the food I’d cooked and looked at it like a turd on his plate. Like something to step on. Something to teach a lesson too. I’d worked him into a lather with teasing. Then again, that problem brought me punishment. He mustn’t admit he lusted for his daughter.

But he became the only thing that mattered to me.

“Seventeen,” he said. “For the exercise you didn’t do.”

“But…” I tried to speak again in my own defense.

“One more word, I’ll make one for every year of your life.”

So, I held my tongue. However, I’d made steak and asparagus, just how Edward liked it. All he did was rag on, Not good enough for a dog to eat. And he meant it. I imagined his disappointment hanging in the air, a poisonous cloud.

He saw me as his baby girl, and that’s all I’d ever be. He told me I knew what to do, and I did. Bent over. Waited. His belt burned the space between us with an unquenchable desire. Then he pulled down my shorts. Pulled down my panties.

“Baby girl, it’s a bare-ass beating this time.” I never acted the good girl he pretended to expect.

I think he always wanted to make me cry, even before the belt. My eyes leaked for him. My tears were love songs, and his obsession with me the only chorus. I’d done it to myself. Made sure I prettied myself for him before I cooked his meal.

Soft powder, ruby lipstick, red on red. A pink blush that streaked like my ass from his punishing swats. The mascara and eyeliner, black as sin, ran down my cheeks and dripped on tit and nipple.

I became what he wanted me to be.

Over the table, or the sink, or the chair. As Daddy’s whipping post to take all those frustrations out on. Nothing but a whore in the rain. When he started with me, my body didn’t care what he called me.

It’s strange to get the stain of Daddy’s belt with nothing between it and me. Weird shit to experience Daddy this way. I’d never felt him more than the day I thought he would beat me to death. He’d given me an impossible schedule and waited for me to say so.

But I never said a word. I let him destroy me. Just the way I let him stew in his lustful juices. Sixteen, he said. Seventeen, I thought. I’d almost said, Just beat me forever. Maybe I had. By the time he told me to do the dishes, I turned to nothing but sobs and wet flesh.

He made me remember every stroke of his belt. It made me ache as each one slapped harder than the last. By the time he said to do the dishes, I’d already stopped counting. In the pain I found pleasure and reassurance of the love he denied existed.

The chair rubbed against my bare stomach while he took his time with me. The more he hurt me, the more my body wanted him. The last secret between us we craved each other. I loved that he punished me. Hated that I wouldn’t say the truth. I couldn’t help the way my chest heaved against the chair. I couldn’t help how I bawled.

That said, the pain created the wetness that leaked between my legs. Oh, yes, I prayed he’d see it and take a long, dangerous gander at my love he created. All Daddy did was make me the whore I was. His whore, always his and Daddy was always mine. Even if he didn’t clinch the idea.

His silence burned like the sun.

Even my sweat reminded me of him. I told myself I could smell him through it. I said to myself that every man must smell the same when he worked his body as hard as Daddy. He didn’t say a thing about my exercise, but I thought he must have understood how turned on he’d made me. He must have heard the way I gasped.

The breathless heat that followed each stroke. Maybe that’s why Edward made me go down on myself before he had the chance to. The friction on the chair, the blows forcing movement, shit he caused it. He said to do the dishes, and I did. Cleaned them like I was born for it.

I hated him, even when I loved him. Love was a poison, an infection in my mind that rushed to my core and filled me with wet necessity. My ass burned, my pussy ached, and I danced in place while I scrubbed and dried the pots, pans, dishes, and glasses.

Sometimes, I thought Daddy loved me back. Every so often, I almost saw it in his eyes, just before they called me trash. But this time I thought I’d never see it again. This time, he punished me too hard to let myself believe in anything except how much I needed him.

He gave me orders similar to the bruises, and I followed them, wishing I’d been born to follow them. He said to do the dishes, and I did. I did the dishes, and I loved him, hated him, and played too much the bad girl for him.

It turned me on more than I’d admit.

He took a bite of the food I’d saved for him. The food I hadn’t dared to eat.

“Looks like the dog gets it after all,” he said.

I still thought he meant it. That I was his bad girl, his garbage. Nothing but his Baby-girl and his waste of time. But maybe he said it to hurt me. To give himself another excuse to punish me. He never needed one, but he always seemed to enjoy them. Enjoyed the shock on my face when he told me to go without.

“No dessert for you.”

A shiver ran down my body. It hurt more than the belt, almost. And I understood none of this punishment was about me. It was Daddy’s inability to get me out of his head. Out of his heart, and most of all, out of his crotch. After all, Daddy’s shouldn’t want to fuck their daughters.

But mine did, so, guess what, I won the fight that night.

He made me want his words. More than his hands. More than his sex. When he said to clean up the mess I’d made of my face, I imagined his cock saying it. Hard like his voice. Giving me nothing except his cruelty.

I went to the shower. Stood in the empty tub, trying to pretend I wasn’t alone. I could never pretend the other way. After all, Edward’s always the dirty thing inside my head. I thought about him when the water steamed away the red.

I took the massaging shower head from its cradle and applied it to where it’d do the most good. I used it to the thought about him when I pushed it between my legs, wet and needing, precisely the same as when he bent me over the chair. The same as when those leathery strokes kissed my cheeks.

“Straight to bed,” he’d said. “And stop wasting water.”

It wasn’t the water that made me wet. When I rubbed myself, I saw Daddy’s face. The disappointment he must have suffered when my hands touched me, instead of his. Daddy’s hungry eyes. Edward’s lips, angry and delicious.

I thought of his sweat glistening on me. I imagined all the times he eyed me like he would eat me alive. With my free hand, I pinched nipples and squeezed tits. And I trembled so hard I couldn’t keep quiet. It pleased me when he told me to go to bed, because I couldn’t stand alone with him so close. Couldn’t stop thinking about the way he would have beaten me if he’d been the water.

Maybe it was the water all along. Drowning. Gasping.

“Just… a… minute… Daddy, not… clean… yet…” The words weren’t lies. A quarter of the truth and three quarters misdirection. Necessity required me to get off. As always, I thought about him when the first shiver came. Then again, when the second ripped through me, right behind it.

By the third, thoughts left me. I was a mindless puddle. Daddy’s, only his. Just like he wanted me, he didn’t understand it yet. I envisioned him when I sank to my knees, when my knees turned to flesh-colored puddles.

I pictured him every single second, just like he wanted me to. He was a flood, and swept away. When I got off, it was drowning. My lips silently screamed his name, but my mind wasn’t sure what his name was.

“Edward,” I said softly, but not soft enough. Daddy fathomed what his name meant. It was wrong, sinful, and I was enraptured by thoughts of him.

“Hurry, girl.”

“Yes.”

The showerhead bucked in my hand like a bronco. Like a savage, impossible thing. It made me buck, too. Maybe Daddy heard me bucking. Perhaps he watched, silent like he was at the table.

His ghost walked through the walls of the shower, and then my body, and then my bed. As the waves built, they walked through me. Leaving holes of breathless pleasure. When the first one exploded, I gasped and sighed. Same on the second. Yet again with the third. Then he told me.

“Carol Ann! Stop wasting water.”

And I thought maybe it was time to get out, but my body was already too wet to stop bucking. Forcing myself to obey. I found my way to bed. Even in bed, it wouldn’t stop. That convulsing, demanding need wouldn’t release me.

Maybe he followed me there, too. Perhaps he followed his own ghost. But no, he wasn’t there. He didn’t leave holes satisfied. Daddy gave me only dreams. Only body-shaped desires, and more breathless holes.

It was dark when I crawled under the covers, but he was still my only light. Still, the bright thing I leaked my juices for. I was worn out. A bruised heap quivering, yearning, all the makeup gone. All desire still unfulfilled. For both of us.

He burned for me I’d captured him and didn’t have a clue.

When I finally slept, I dreamed of nothing but him. Just like every night before. Just like every dream before. Daddy’s property, and I was his undiscovered lover. This time, the dream went on forever.

 

Darling Daddy Dearest

Chapter Two: When the Dingbat Came Between Us

From Carol Ann’s Private Diary

As I remember this dreadful thing and write it, the incidents flow from memory and my words unfold as if it were now. In a perfect world, my mother’s body would have been enough for him, and his for her.

If that’d been the case, she’d never have left. Or, maybe, in a perfect world, I’d have been old enough to satisfy him, and she wouldn’t’ve been needed.

Even then, even at sixteen, even knowing it’s wrong, my mind goes there. My love for my father is always what everything is about. Something catches my attention and draws me to wall I share with Edward, darling Daddy dearest’s room.

It’s late, and it’s loud, and it’s clear he isn’t alone in his bed. The slut’s name is Donna, or Diana. Something with a D. He’s fucking her good, and she wants the world to understand. My fingers are between my legs, wet and insistent, before I realized what they’re doing.

This is my ritual when Daddy brings a woman home, and his deep moans drown out the sitcom laugh tracks that I use as a cover. I wait until the cries of his lover rise above the clamor, until they seep into my room and into my head.

Then, and only then, I bury the remote under a pillow and touch myself. Matching my rhythm to the creaking bedsprings. I picture his chiseled chest and how small it would make me feel pressing against it. How my green eyes would look locked on his.

He doesn’t call the bimbo by name, but she shrieks his so loud it hurts.

The bitch is getting fucked good, and she’s trying to announce it to the stock in the fields. It’s not like she’s lying, though; Edward knows what he’s doing. I keep a slow pace with my fingers, teasing myself like he would.

If I were the one in there, I needn’t to make so much fake noise. He’d hear me gasping for air. He’d see how much I wanted it body shaking and how fast I cum, how hard I pulled him to me. I close my eyes, and I can almost smell him, his raw heat mixing with her nasty, sex sweat and my own perspiration and pooling juices.

In my mind, it’s my red hair that he grips in his fists, my small tits that he mauls with his mouth and his hands. He could fuck me all night, all week, all year, and I’d still want more. That’s just the effect he has on me.

Protecting myself from the truth, I blame the whole on my virginity and his virility. After all, I don’t know better. But fuck it all, it isn’t true. The girls at school all giggle about how they want someone with experience, how they wished on a star for someone strong.

They’d want Edward, too, if they got him the way I did.

The banging of the headboard resonated through the hall, growing louder… faster… harder. I can’t hear her now over the slap of his body against hers, but I get that she’s got her mouth open, screaming her approval.

The ooze is strong, and my thighs slicked with my discharge as his name builds in my throat. I push in deeper, imagining his size inside me, filling me until I can’t think straight. It’s sickening how much I want him, how much I let myself want him, and that’s exactly what makes it so fucking good.

I’m careful not to bust my hymen, saving it for Daddy.

The headboard crashes like thunder. The bedposts threaten to snap. And all at once, I can hear her again, louder and wilder than ever.

“Oh, god!” she yells. “It’s so big! So big!” There’s a quick, masculine grunt. It’s hard, and then it’s over.

“Fuck! Yes!” she screams. He comes with her, and so do I.

After a minute of heavy breathing, I can hear his rumbling voice.

“That’s amazing,” he says. He sounds like he means it. “You’re amazing.”

She laughs. “We were amazing.”

“Yeah, I guess we were.” I wonder if he’d say the same about us.

When I hear the shower, I imagine him washing her from him. Throwing her cheap nastiness to the side like something to be disposed of. My fingers are still buried between my legs, the bedsprings still in my ears. Even through the muffling of the bathroom door, I can hear their stupid conversation.

“You think we woke her?” asks Miss Big Tits.

“No,” he says. “Carol Ann could sleep through a nuclear blast.”

They laugh, as if a nuclear blast is some silly thing. As if I am. They get dressed, still giggling, and head downstairs. A few minutes later, I hear the front door slam. I hear the bimbo’s car roar to life. Only then do I pull my hand out of my panties, glistening and spent.

I wonder what it would be like if she didn’t make it home. If they the cunt didn’t make it past the next traffic light. I think about meteorites, about gasoline, about divine intervention. Then I close my eyes. And as I drift into sleep, as a smug smirk paints my face, I hear his voice in my dreams.

“We were amazing,” Edward says, holding me close. But that was then, and we’re three years past then. I haven’t dated a boy since that night.

My nightgown rides my thighs, clings to my hips, sheer fabric so delicate and fine it might dissolve right into my skin. The lace trim fits perfectly on my tiny breasts, barely covers my ass. Lacy. Frilly.

I love it and wish Daddy could see it. I cut class and left school before I even got there, but he’s not home to catch me, to scold me, to maybe punish me. When he whips my ass he’s so fucking turned on. It doesn’t matter. I take a long shower and resist using the massager. When I slip into bed, I don’t bother with panties.

I clutch my stuffed panda. I’m so wet it seeps right into his fur, and I fuck him as I moan like Daddy is right there to hear me. Would he tell me what a bad girl I am? Would he punish me? My little nightgown slips over my hips, clings to me, damp and tight and see-through.

When I shut my eyes, it’s Daddy’s lap I’m riding. Daddy’s big hands holding my hips and pulling me closer. Daddy. Daddy. His name breaks from my lips as I come. I tremble, pant, go at it harder.

The truth is, I feel so dirty, so better than good.