Dripping Wet for Only You Daddy

It started long before the engagement party. I first noticed it the night Felix came over for dinner three months ago. My mother had been seeing him for a while, but that was the first time he stayed late, jacket off, sleeves rolled up, laughing at something she said. I was clearing the table when he looked at me across the kitchen island. Not a polite glance. A long, quiet look that made my stomach tighten. I told myself it was nothing. He was forty-seven. My mother’s boyfriend. Off-limits in every way that mattered. But the wanting didn’t care about rules. It grew in the small moments. The way his voice dropped when he spoke only to me. The brush of his fingers when he handed me a glass of wine. The time he found me alone in the garage looking for a tool and stood too close, heat rolling off his body, and asked if I needed help. I said no. My pulse said yes. I started touching myself at night thinking about him. Not gently. Desperate, frustrated strokes while I bit my pillow and imagined his hands instead of mine. I hated how much I wanted it. I hated how empty I felt afterward. By the time the engagement was announced, the ache had become constant. A low, persistent throb between my legs whenever he was in the same room. Whenever I heard his car in the driveway. Whenever my mother said his name with that soft, happy tone. The night of the engagement party, I couldn’t take it anymore. I watched him from across the living room while guests laughed and glasses clinked. He looked devastating in a dark shirt, open at the throat. Every time our eyes met, something sharp and hungry passed between us. I felt it in my cunt. A slow, humiliating pulse of wetness that soaked through my panties before the first toast was even finished. I went upstairs to get air. I didn’t expect him to follow. He found me in the hallway, back against the wall, trying to breathe. For a second we just stared at each other. The music and voices downstairs felt far away. “You’ve been looking at me all night,” he said quietly. I could have lied. I should have. Instead I whispered, “I can’t stop.” Felix stepped closer. Close enough that I smelled his cologne and the faint heat of his skin. His hand came up and brushed a strand of hair from my cheek. The touch was almost gentle. It still made my knees weak. “How long?” he asked. “Months.” My voice cracked. “I try not to. I really do. But every time you’re here I… I get so wet I can barely sit still. I touch myself after you leave and it’s never enough. I want—” I didn’t finish. He kissed me. It wasn’t soft. It was the kind of kiss that said he had been starving too. His mouth claimed mine, tongue sliding deep, one hand gripping the back of my neck while the other slid under my skirt and found the proof of everything I’d just confessed. His fingers pressed against the soaked lace and he groaned into my mouth. “f**k. You’re soaked for me.” I nodded against his lips, already shaking. “Please. I’ve wanted this for so long.” He didn’t make me wait. Two thick fingers pushed inside me right there in the hallway. Slow at first, then deeper, curling, stretching me open while his thumb rubbed tight circles over my c**t. I clung to his shoulders, face buried against his neck so no one downstairs would hear the broken sounds I made. “You’ve been aching for this,” he murmured against my ear. “Walking around with a dripping cunt every time I come over. Thinking about me when you come.” “Yes—” “Tell me what you imagined.” I could barely speak. “Your mouth. Your c**k. You holding me down and… and using me. I wanted you to know how wet I get. I wanted you to taste it.” He pulled his fingers free, spun me, and pushed me to my knees. His c**k was already out, heavy and hard, the head shiny with precum. He guided it to my lips. “Then taste me first.” I opened for him like I’d been waiting my whole life. The thick head slid over my tongue and I moaned around it, eyes watering as he pushed deeper. He f****d my mouth in short, controlled strokes, hand fisted in my hair, watching every second. “That’s it. Take it. You’ve been starving for this c**k, haven’t you?” I nodded as best I could, sucking harder, letting spit run down my chin. The wet, filthy sounds of him using my throat filled the quiet hallway. My own hand was between my legs again, rubbing frantically. I was so close already it hurt. He pulled out before either of us came, breathing hard. “Bedroom. Now.” We barely made it inside. The door locked. He stripped my panties off and pushed me onto the bed—the same bed he would soon share with my mother—and dropped between my thighs like a man possessed. The first long lick made me cry out. Felix groaned against my cunt, the sound vibrating through me, and then he was eating me like he had been craving the taste for months too. Broad, greedy strokes of his tongue. Sucking my c**t. Pushing inside me. Spreading me open with his thumbs so he could get deeper. I came the first time with my hands buried in his hair, thighs shaking around his head, trying not to scream. He didn’t stop. He kept licking through the aftershocks until I was oversensitive and whimpering, then climbed up my body and kissed me so I could taste myself on his mouth. “I’ve wanted this too,” he said roughly against my lips. “Every time I left this house with a hard c**k because of you. Every night I stroked myself thinking about how tight you’d feel. How sweet you’d taste. How you’d look when you finally took me.” He lined up and sank into me in one long, thick thrust. The stretch was perfect. Overwhelming. I clung to him as he filled me completely, bottoming out, then started moving in deep, steady strokes that made the bed creak. Every thrust dragged against the places that had been aching for him for weeks. “Look at me,” he ordered. I did. His eyes were dark, almost pained with how much he wanted this. “This is mine now,” he said. “This cunt. These orgasms. The way you get so wet just from looking at me. All of it.” I nodded, tears of pure relief at the corners of my eyes. “Yours. Please—don’t stop.” He f****d me harder. Deeper. One hand slid between us to rub my c**t in tight, perfect circles while he talked filthy praise into my ear—how good I felt, how long he’d wanted to ruin me, how he was going to fill me so full I’d still feel him tomorrow. I came again with his name (and then “Daddy”) broken on my tongue. The word slipped out unbidden and his control snapped. He buried himself to the hilt and came hard, flooding me with thick, hot pulses, grinding deep like he wanted every drop locked inside me. We stayed like that for a long time, breathing hard, bodies still joined. His forehead rested against mine. One of his hands stroked my hair almost tenderly. “I’ve been going crazy wanting you,” he admitted quietly. “Watching you walk around this house, knowing I couldn’t touch you yet. Knowing how wet you were getting for me.” I kissed him softly. “I still want more.” A dark, satisfied smile curved his mouth. “Good. Because tonight, after everyone leaves… I’m not letting you sleep. I’m going to taste you again. f**k you again. Make you come until you can’t walk straight. And tomorrow, when your mother is smiling at me over breakfast, you’ll still be full of my cum.” He finally pulled out. I felt the warm slide of him leaving me, the slow leak down my thighs. He watched it with open hunger, then helped me stand on shaky legs and fixed my dress with careful hands. “Go downstairs,” he said. “Be the good daughter for a little while longer. Smile. Toast. Pretend nothing happened.” I nodded, heart still racing. As I walked back toward the party, his c*m warm between my thighs and the taste of him still on my tongue, the yearning didn’t disappear. It only got sharper. Because now I knew exactly what it felt like to have him. And I already needed it again.