Dad is playing with me

Untitled 4

"Dad!" I shout, beside myself, and the door to my room bursts open. My breathing is awful, but when I focus on it, it gets even worse.

"What happened?" he asks, genuinely worried, as he enters my room and looks around. I lick my lips, struggling not to let my gaze drop to his chest, but I fail and have to bite my lower lip to keep from gasping at the sight.

"A bad dream," I lie, because I can’t tell him that the opposite of a bad dream is having dreamed that, this time, instead of fu*cking one of my friends, he was eating my pu*ssy.

"Do you want me to stay?" he asks, sitting down next to me on the bed.

Oh my God, I’m the worst stepdaughter in the world.

I nod because, even though I’d rather he leave—I just had an orgasm from my dream about him—I never say no when he offers to stay with me until I fall asleep after a nightmare. The truth is, I’ve had a lot of nightmares since I was little.

My mind is very imaginative and wicked, because it rarely gives me good dreams—they’re always bad—but I’d never had an erotic dream before.

I move aside, and he gets into bed with me, lifting the blanket to cover himself. My body trembles as I press against him, and by instinct, my leg moves to his waist, wrapping around it, but in the process, I touch something else, and he lets out a low growl.

I hold my breath, but I can’t stop trembling from the caresses she’s giving my arm, trying to calm me down, when the truth is, she’s making it worse.

He is my father. He sees me as a daughter. He thinks he’s comforting his daughter so she’ll go back to sleep peacefully.

But no.

What he’s doing is igniting my body even more, and it’s eager for another kind of touch from him. I growl furiously at the girls for planting in my head the possibility of seeing him as a man.

It's horrible.

—Shh, you’re okay, my love. "I'm here," he whispers, kissing the top of my head.

I’m going to have a heart attack, I swear.

"I can't sleep," I admit softly.

What did you dream about? You know that if you tell me, it won’t come true. No one’s going to hurt you while I’m with you — he promises. I closed my eyes, biting my lips because I couldn’t tell him.

I can’t tell him that I dreamed I was in the living room, with my legs spread and my knees on his shoulders, while he was kneeling in front of me, eating my pu*ssy like no one ever had before. I can’t tell you that he had me grinding against his wonderful mouth because of the way he moved, how he penetrated me with his tongue, and, at the same time, sucked, tugged, and released my folds at his whim.

I can’t tell you that I came for the first time with a man and that he savored every drop of my orgasm with his skillful mouth, until there was nothing left but to clean up, but he didn’t stop and kept licking, tasting, provoking more and more of my fluids until the second orgasm was earth-shattering, and I screamed his name with all my might.

God, I'm sick.

“I don’t remember anymore,” I lie, and he presses me even closer, taking my other hand in his and wrapping it around his stomach.

I know I’ll die any minute now from holding my breath for so long.

—It’s over, go back to sleep, I’m not going anywhere—he promises. I lift my head, making him lower his and look at me.

“Have you ever seen me any other way?” I ask softly, and he furrows his brow.

—What?

"Have you ever seen me as anything more than your daughter?" I insist, feeling my heart pump blood frantically. I need to stop feeling like a sick person.

If he tells me he doesn’t see me as his daughter, I’ll be able to stop blaming myself for not seeing him as a father.

Or rather, to see him more as a man than as a father.

"What's that question for?" he replies. I bite my lower lip and notice that his eyes are fixed on my lips.

"I want to know if you see me as a woman," I explain, almost gasping, because his eyes won’t stop looking at my lips, and it’s making my whole body hot.

—You’re a woman, Diana. “You don’t have an age, but I know you’re already a woman,” he admits, yet he doesn’t answer my question.

"That's not what I asked," I complain, and he smiles, finally looking me in the eyes.

"Why are you so nosy today?" he replies. I squint at him, giving him a dirty look.

—It’s normal for me to have questions, isn’t it?

—Yes, but it’s not normal for your questions to be directed at me specifically. I can answer anything you want, but why are you interested in my s*ex life and preferences now? — he asks. I lick my lips, wanting to tell him it’s because I’m fantasizing that my s*ex life is tied to his.

“Because the guys my age are idiots,” I confess, and he laughs heartily, shifting us so we’re side by side, but he takes my leg and rests it on his, with only the slightest gap between our bodies.

The heat is burning me alive, I swear.

"And do you want me to tell you how to teach them to f*uck, or is it so you can tell your friends how I really f*uck?" he asks. I sigh, swallowing a gasp as I slowly caress my leg.

‍​I don’t think he’s even realized he’s caressing me, but I definitely notice it. And a lot.

"I want to know if you see me as a woman," I insist. Finally, he seems to understand my question, because he lowers his gaze to where my breasts rise with my erratic breathing and digs his fingers into my leg.

"How do you see me?" he retorts.

“You’re a man,” I say, omitting the fact that he’s way out of my league, much better than any guy my age I’ve ever met.

—I am, but am I just a man to you? —he insists. I know he wants me to say he’s my father, and I know I should say it, because he is.

It doesn’t matter that we’re not blood-related; I can’t just tell him he’s not my father after he’s raised me almost my entire life. It’s not fair.

However, how do I explain to him that, more than my father, he’s the man I’m longing to fu*ck me right now, because I’m sure he knows how to fu*ck me and leave me satisfied?