The Birthday Surprise

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.

The Birthday Surprise

Emily’s 19th birthday

The year is a living hell for Thomas. The bond between his daughter has never been tighter, but since she turned 18, Thomas’s wanting of her has grown. His love deepens daily, his lust grows stronger, and in a few short hours, she’ll be 19.

Tonight’s the night.

The house holds its breath. During the quiet of the night, Thomas stands in the hallway, one hand on the doorknob, the other wrapped tight around a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s. He stares at the white wood, at the childish sticker in the shape of a purple heart still clinging to the panel. A relic, like everything else in this house.

The clock in the foyer ticks out the seconds. He waits, counts five, ten, twenty. He tests the handle. It turns with a muted rasp. The hinges creak, but not so much as to be heard over the AC’s background noise.

Carpet swallows the sound of his steps. Thomas glances down the hall-dark, vacant-and slides into her room. Pulling the door shut behind him until the latch snicks. After a second or two, his eyes adjust. The dim blue glow of a lava lamp puddles in one corner. Savoring the hush, the privacy, he moves in silence.

The bottle trembles in his hand; his knuckles shine white. Taking another slug of liquid courage, he wipes his mouth.

Emily sleeps curled tight beneath her comforter. With her lips parted in a faint oval, her breath puffs out in little shudders, long hair fanned in russet arcs over the pillow. She looks younger this way, more fragile than her nineteen years, all jaw, cheekbones, and girlish muscles under the surface. Even while slumbering, her hands clutch the covers.

Thomas studies her face: the silken, feathery lashes, the slope of her nose, the pale crescent of her throat. No one ever really knows their own children.

He drifts closer.

Her scent-Billie Eilish’s perfume, lotion, something floral from her hair-mingles with the stale heat from the vent. He drinks from the bottle, lets the bourbon sear his tongue. He drains the rest, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and sets the bottle down hard on her dresser. The clink bounces off the walls. But Em doesn’t stir. He traces a finger along the edge of her mirror, smearing a crescent.

At this point in his life, she’s the most important thing. And he doesn’t want to share her with anyone, including her mother. The passions died between them, the love has flown, and all that remains is comfort.

For a moment, he tries to remember the last time they’d made love. Years ago, but sometimes, not often, they still fuck. And that is boring to him. She’s boring. But Emily isn’t, has never been, could never be, dull.

So easy, Thomas could fold Em up, take her with him, tuck her away.

Instead, Thomas crouches next to the bed. He watches for a long time, drinking in the up-and-down rise of her chest, the fragile pulse at her neck. He waits for her to sense him, waits for the moment her body knows before her mind does.

Emily twitches. Her lids flutter. She rolls onto her back, a soft moan at the edge of speech.

He places his hand on her shoulder. “Emily.”

With eyes creaking half-open, she stirs, mumbles. “Mmnh. Daddy?” Her voice floats, dazed, half awake.

“Shh, shh, shush. You’re dreaming.” He strokes her hair.

She tries to sit. The blanket tangles around her arms; her head lolls. She blinks in confusion. “What… what time is it?”

“Late. Go back to sleep.” Thomas brushes her cheek.

She blinks again. Her confusion blossoms into alarm. She tries to pull the covers higher, fumbles, and finds his hand instead. Her fingers graze his knuckles-seize, tense, attempt to pry him off.

“Dad, what are you doing?”

He pins her with a look.

“Hush, sweetie. You’re safe. I’m here to wish you a happy 19th birthday and share some time with you.” The clock on the nightstand showed 12:00.

Blood pounding in her ears, she tries to turn away. Then Thomas catches her jaw in one large hand, not rough but not gentle either. He brings his face close, close enough to feel her shallow breaths, to watch the pupils dilate in terror, lust, need, or all three. Her mouth opens, a perfect O.

He covers it with his own.

She gasps. The sound is soft, a breath of surprise, but he swallows it. He presses harder, lips grinding hers. She fights, tries to jerk her head free, but his grip is iron. His tongue probes between her lips, finds her teeth clenched tight. He wedges her jaw open, forces his tongue deeper.

The weight of the moment pressed down, Emily’s mind blanks out for a beat. She tastes the bourbon on his breath, the salt and sour of him. He tastes her, tongue sliding over the ridges of her palate, the back of her teeth, greedy for everything. She tries to bite. He only presses harder.

Fueled by desperation, she clamps her lips closed. Then turns her head as far as he’ll allow, and makes a keening, animalistic sound down in her throat. Her arms flail, slap uselessly at his shoulders. His weight crushes her down into the mattress. The room tilts, the world shrinks to the wet grind of his tongue and the stubble scraping her chin raw.

A moisture rises down inside her most private part. Desire grows as shame surges in equal measures.

Panic lights up her veins. This can’t be real. Not here, not now. Not him. Maybe this is a nightmare, some whiskey-fueled delusion, and she’ll wake up to sunlight and the dull ache of ordinary disappointment. Perhaps he’s tucking her in after a scary movie, and it’s only a hug, only a kiss on the forehead. But she feels every inch of his body pressing hers into the mattress.

He breaks the kiss at last, lips red and glistening. He stares down at her, breathing heavy but controlled.