Her First Time With Daddy

Chapter One I spent the whole morning trying not to overthink it. The little box in my bag wasn’t jewelry or some expensive watch. It was a decision. After almost a year of careful boundaries and quiet refusals, I was finally going to give my boyfriend, Vance, the one thing he’d asked for more times than I could count—my virginity. I’d kept it locked away like something fragile, something that mattered. Tonight I planned to hand it over. The thought alone made my hands shake a little every time I checked the bag. I told my aunt, Sybil, I’d be back before evening. She was already in the kitchen, stirring something that smelled like garlic and onions. “Don’t be late,” she said without looking up. “Today’s special.” I knew what she meant. The man who kept the lights on and the fridge full was coming. My aunt’s husband, Orson. He sent money every month like clockwork, made sure I never went without clothes or school fees or the small comforts other girls took for granted. But he never sat with me when I cried. Never asked how I was sleeping. Never filled the empty space left when my parents died in that accident when I was eight. Provider, not father. I learned the difference early. I took a cab across the city with the box resting on my knees. The driver talked about the heat and the traffic; I answered in short sounds. All I could picture was the look on Vance's face when I told him I was ready. We’d come close a few times—hands under clothes, breathless minutes on his couch—but I’d always stopped it. He never pushed hard. Just looked disappointed in that soft way of his and said he could wait. Tonight the waiting was supposed to end. The front door of his place was unlocked. Music drifted from the bedroom, low and slow. I smiled, thinking maybe he’d planned something of his own. I stepped inside, kicked off my shoes, and called his name. No answer. The music grew clearer as I walked down the short hallway. I pushed the bedroom door open with the gift still in my hand. The sight hit me like a slap I hadn’t seen coming. Vance was on all fours on the bed, jeans shoved down around his thighs. Another man—taller, heavier, someone I’d never seen—was behind him, hips rolling in a steady, deliberate rhythm. Skin slapped skin. Vance's head hung forward, forehead pressed into the sheets, and the sounds coming out of him were wet and broken. Moans that rose and fell with every thrust. The stranger’s hands gripped his hips hard enough to leave white marks. I stood frozen in the doorway. The gift box slipped from my fingers and hit the floor with a soft thud. Something cold and sharp settled in my chest. No wonder he’d never seemed to know where to touch me. No wonder his hands always hesitated, always asked permission twice, always stopped short of anything that felt truly hungry. He’d been saving the real hunger for someone else. His name left my mouth before I could stop it—quiet at first, then louder. He jerked upright so fast the other man had to catch himself on the mattress. The stranger cursed under his breath and pulled out, already reaching for his shirt. Vance scrambled backward, face flushed dark, eyes wide. “Baby—f**k—I’m so sorry. I didn’t think you’d—” I didn’t let him finish. My palm cracked across his cheek hard enough that the sound bounced off the walls. He staggered, hand flying to the red mark blooming on his skin. “You’re gay?” My voice came out flat, almost tired. “All this time you’ve been asking me for something you didn’t even want?” He started talking fast, the usual scramble of half-truths and panic. It was just once. It didn’t mean anything. He still loved me. The stranger was already dressed and slipping past me toward the door, muttering something about not signing up for drama. I didn’t look at him. I stared at Vance, the man I’d almost given everything to, and felt the decision I’d made that morning turn to ash in my hands. I turned and walked out. Grabbed my bag from the floor, left the door standing open, and kept moving until I was outside on the sidewalk. The air felt too thin. I stood there breathing like I’d run uphill, the box still somewhere on his bedroom floor. My phone buzzed. A text from Aunt Sybil: the restaurant address, the time, a short line that said Orson was already on the way. I hailed another cab with fingers that wouldn’t quite stop trembling. The driver asked if I was okay. I said yes and stared out the window while the city slid past in a blur of glass and concrete. Every time I closed my eyes I saw the curve of Vance's back, the way his mouth had fallen open, the wet sound of skin meeting skin. The gift I’d carried all morning felt like a joke now. The restaurant was in a tall glass building downtown. I paid the driver, stepped onto the polished sidewalk, and headed straight for the elevators. The lobby smelled of air conditioning and expensive cologne. I pressed the button for the top floor and waited with my arms crossed tight over my chest. The elevator arrived empty. I stepped inside, leaned against the mirrored back wall, and closed my eyes for a second. The doors began to slide shut—then a hand caught them. A man stepped in. Late forties or early fifties, broad through the shoulders, silver at the temples, the kind of face that looked used to getting what it wanted without asking twice. Dark suit, clean shoes, the faint scent of whiskey under expensive cologne—it was Vance's father, Corren, though I didn't realize it until he stepped fully into the light. He nodded once, pressed a button, and stood closer than he needed to. The doors sealed. The car started to rise. I shifted, trying to put space between us. There wasn’t much. His presence filled the small space—heat, height, the quiet confidence of someone who didn’t apologize for taking up room. Then I felt it: the hard, deliberate press of him against the curve of my ass. Not a brush. Not an accident. Steady pressure that made it clear exactly what he was offering. I turned my head. Corren was looking straight ahead, expression calm, like this was the most ordinary thing in the world. His hand rested lightly at his side, but the contact against me never eased. When the elevator slowed for a floor that wasn’t ours, he reached past me without a word and held the door-close button until the car continued upward. My pulse was loud in my ears. Part of me wanted to shove him back, to say something sharp and final. The other part—the part still raw from the bedroom, from the slap, from the empty space where trust used to sit—stayed still. The betrayal sat heavy in my chest, mixed with a sudden, reckless emptiness. I’d been ready to give something away that morning. Now it felt like nothing was left to protect. He leaned in just enough that his breath touched the side of my neck, warm and steady. “Do you want to suck it?”