Reflections of Desire
by R.R. Ryan
Copyright© 2025 by R.R. Ryan
Erotica Sex Story: Ten years after his wife left him, Daniel and his daughter find themselves drawn together more than ever. Daniel Montgomery has poured every ounce of his being into raising his daughter in the aftermath of his wife's abandonment. Protective, unwavering, and consumed by his parental duties. He never imagined the depth of his daughter's hidden desires until they threatened to consume them both. The manipulative daughter sets a trap to seduce her father. Will sparks fly?
Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Coercion Consensual Fiction Incest Father Daughter .
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.
Right this moment
This is ten years after Mother left us for another guy, ten years without her. For all those years, it’s Daddy and me. Sure, he’s dated, but nothing ever works. Trust, once broken, eludes some people.
However, we have trust in each other. So, why shouldn’t we have more?
The night comes, I stare at myself in the closet mirror. Sucking in my stomach until the lower ribs show. Hunching my shoulders, I angle my chin to sharpen my jawline, and my hair spreads across, forming a shroud over my collarbones. The body stares back, vacant-eyed, waiting for its next set of instructions.
Sometimes, in the right light, I look older than eighteen. Tonight, with the makeup scrubbed from my face and my shirt unbuttoned halfway, I’m a girl who wants Daddy to catch her.
The decision took hold hours ago. Had the willy-nilly all day, I haven’t eaten since lunch, and now my stomach gnaws at itself. Hunger sharpens things, but I ignore it. The fact is, I need to feel every atom of the moment.
The bedroom’s a mausoleum.
Piles of sweatshirts and notebooks hem me in from all sides, blocking the air vent so the whole place smells of lint and artificial vanilla. The string lights are dead in one corner, leaving a tumor of darkness on the far wall. A graveyard of bobby pins and hairbands covers the top of my dresser.
Quickly, I brush aside the debris and start with my shirt. White, thin, almost transparent under the lamplight. Off it goes, buttons snapping, the fabric cold where it brushes my skin. Stepping on them as I wiggle out of my jeans, I let the slacks drop to the carpet as well.
The pants fight me. Strange how some simple things aren’t simple a’tall, I have to bend, squat, peel them from my thighs with both hands. The effort makes me pant, raises goosebumps along my bare arms. For a second, I catch the outline of my body in the mirror. Small breasts, pale and tipped with pink, ribcage defined but not sharp, hipbones round and ready to be cradled.
In quiet moments, I watch my legs tense as I stand. The reflection seems alien, not ugly, extra, or unfamiliar, a borrowed, anatomically correct mannequin.
Shedding the rest.
The bralette’s gray and crusted with months of sweat. The panties are cotton with little strawberries across the back, cutesy and juvenile. They disgust me, so I throw both into the laundry basket. Pulling the pile of new things from the closet shelf.
White lace, still crisp with the price tags. The thong is a scrap, more suggestion than substance. Teasing myself, I hold it up to the light, see the closet through it. Then, I tug it up my legs and feel the fabric slip between the cheeks, the faintest tickle where it rides against me.
The matching bra’s no better, an A-cup with pointless underwire and straps thin as dental floss. With arms contorted behind me, I struggle with the clasp. Fighting the urge to give up. When it finally clicks, I stand taller. With trembling hands, I turn, side to side, watching the way the lace hugs and exposes me.
Without a doubt, I crave to become someone he’d desire.
When I walk, my feet leave damp prints as I cross to the bathroom. Gazing at myself again. Without makeup, I’m all sharp corners, cheekbones, a thin mouth, gigantic eyes framed by wet lashes. My hair sticks to my forehead in ugly streaks. Twisting the faucet, I let the water run until the pipes clatter and the heat floods the air. Before getting in, I strip again, tossing the lingerie onto the edge of the sink. The mirror fogs over before I even step into the shower.
The water burns.
Forcing myself to stand under it, to let the heat sear my shoulders and down my spine. Washing myself with the expensive stuff from the locked drawer. A lily-scented body wash and shampoo that smells summerish. Crap on a stick, I use too much. Coating my skin and scalp until I’m slick all over, fingers slipping as I scrub.
Picturing his hands doing this, slow, methodical, tracing the arch of my back, the dip above my ass. When I rinse off, I stand shivering as the water slides from my body. Once I’ve finished, I yank open the shower door and step onto the cold tile.
Already used, rough and scratchy, I dry off with a towel from the bottom of the stack. Which leaves my skin pink and raw in places. Wiping the fog from the mirror, I peer at the new version of myself: dripping, nipples hard from the cold, lips parted. With teeth bared, I grin. An animal in her natural habitat.
The razor comes out next.
Propping my foot on the toilet lid, I drag the blade up my shin, careful not to nick the bone. Watching the foam collect hair and dead skin in its wake, I shave slow and cautiously. No nicks, no cuts. Yearning to be perfect, to be soft. Checking for missed patches, I run my palm over my leg and do it again.
Then I switch legs, do my arms, and the strip above my pussy. The heat flushes my face, not from the effort, but from the thought of him seeing it, touching it. Thinking about his tongue down there, plunging into me. Fucking intense, Daddy’s mouth on my twat. Studying the hair swirling down the drain as I rinse the razor in the sink.
Back in my room, I towel off a second time. Yanking on the lace thong, the bra, fumbling with the straps until the cups sit right. The panties bite into my hips, leaving faint lines in the skin. Arching my back, I turn in front of the mirror and push out my chest. Strange, I appear fragile but dangerous.
Perfume comes last. Pulling the trigger, I spritz my wrist, rub them together, and then, behind my ears. Lifting the hem of the thong, I spray once down there. The mist settles cool and burns. A pleasurable pain, I savor it. Rolling my shoulders, I let my hair fall forward, staring myself down.
This is the real me. No more hiding, no more playing it safe. When I run my fingers over my stomach, a tremor forms in my hands. Yes, I’m scared, but the good kind. The kind that makes your heart kick harder, that makes you want to leap off a building to see if you can fly.
Tossing my head this way and that, I shake out my hair. Pulling on a threadbare hoodie, his, faded and stretched, the cuffs chewed up with teeth marks. With nothing else underneath, I zip it halfway.
As the old house holds its breath, I check the clock. 11:44. More than likely, Daddy will be asleep soon, the house settling around his breathing. The truth is, I need him to see me as I am.
Because I want him to want me. The song plays in my head.
I touch the tip of my tongue to my wrist, taste the perfume, and shiver. Holy Jesus on a dashboard, I can’t wait any longer.
The next time I see myself in the mirror, it’ll be as someone new. Someone who takes what she requires.
The house is quiet for once. No sports droning from the living room, no dishwasher cycling, no dogs. Even the crickets outside shut up. In the quietness, I move through the hallway with bare feet, toes sinking into the carpet, knees trembling with every step. Each door I pass radiates a unique flavor of ghost.
The laundry closet, the guest bath, and the bedroom he pretends is an office but never uses. Careful and quiet, I hold my breath as I reach his door. Afraid the noise will tip him off before I’m ready.
When I test the knob, it turns, easy as butter.
Slipping inside, letting the door settle back without a click. The darkness is absolute, smothering. All my life, his bedroom never had a nightlight, claiming they’re for babies. For a few seconds, I let my eyes adjust. At first, shapes form. The dresser, the chair, the enormous square of his bed in the center of the far wall. Trying to steady myself, I draw in a slow lungful. The air here is dense with him.
Not cologne—he never wears it. But the clean, nearly medicinal smell of his soap, the faint tang of old gym shirts folded on the dresser, the burn of dryer sheets from the bedspread. Somehow, I can taste it. When my heart thuds so loud, I’m sure it’ll wake the neighbors.
As I shuffle to the bed, I pause when the wood frame creaks under my weight. In that instant, my heart stops, restarts, and kicks even harder. Intently, I listen. Nothing but the hum of the AC vent. Good, he’s not here yet. So, I slip under the covers, drag the duvet up to my neck, and ball myself into the tightest curl possible.
The sheets are cold and crisp with that straight-from-the-laundry tautness. When my skin prickles, I tug the hoodie lower on my hips. Feeling the scratch of lace underneath, I slide my palms along my thighs until I reach the seam of the thong. The secret burns. Savoring it, I squeeze my knees together.
Staring at the wall, I wait for the inevitable. My breath fogs the pillow. Time slows to a syrupy crawl. Testing my resolve, I run my tongue along my teeth, chew the inside of my cheek, bite down until I taste copper. For a few moments, I imagine how this will look in the morning, me in his bed. Bare legs tangled in the sheets, nothing underneath, hair wild on the pillow. Oh yes, I’ll be the girl who gets what she wants, no matter what it takes.
The doorknob rattles, I freeze. With the crack of hallway light behind Dad, outlining his silhouette, he steps inside. Tall, broad, head dropping down, Atlas with the world on his neck. For several seconds, I don’t move, don’t even breathe.
Soaking in the details, I watch him from the corner of my eye. The stained work jeans, the faded t-shirt with the logo peeled off, the battered wrists, and giant, scarred hands. He smells of cut grass and diesel, plus that clean undercurrent from the bathroom.
He stands for a minute or less, breathing.
Then the door closes, snuffing out all the light. In the stillness, I hear him toe off his boots, the thud as they drop to the floor. The rustle of his shirt as he peels it off. Squeezing my eyes shut, waiting for the bed to sag with his weight. For someone so big, he moves quietly, with practiced silence.
This comes from years of sneaking up on kids, animals, or burglars. The mattress dips. There’s a faint static charge in the air when he lifts the edge of the blanket.
His body radiates heat before it even touches me.
He says nothing, slides in behind me, settling a foot away, the covers a mountain range between us. Keeping my face turned to the wall, breathing steadily, and make believe I’m already asleep. In a long, shuddery thing, he exhales and rolls over to his back. We lie about that, both of us holding our own sides of the bed, the silence pulsing between us.
Minutes pass as I imagine a clock somewhere, ticking. Inching closer to the boundary line between us, I flex my toes, testing the limits. The sheet pulls tight against my hips, and the air inside the hoodie grows clammy. Desire swells, and I want to reach over, grab his hand, and yank it onto my body. Instead, I settle for curling tighter, letting my back arch toward him, closing the distance by degrees.
He shifts, possibly sensing my movement, but doesn’t react. He’s tired, I know. He’s always tired. In the darkness, I count the rise and fall of his chest, the shallow rhythm of his breathing. He mutters something—a sigh, a fragment of a word—but nothing I can make out. In my mind’s eye, I picture his face in the darkness. The stubble, the lines from sun and work, the tired but not defeated set of his mouth. Wanting to touch it, to learn every inch.
The sheets slide as I scoot another inch. My ass bumps the warm spot where his thigh meets the mattress. And in this moment, I brace for him to move. To pull away, but he stays put. Again, I imagine the way he’d react if he knew what I was wearing, what I planned. The thought makes my skin sing.
So, I let my body melt into the space between us. His breath ruffles the hair at the base of my neck. We don’t touch, not yet, but the enormity of him pulls me closer.
The world shrinks to the four corners of this bed, to the two bodies orbiting each other in the dark. One at a time, I count the heartbeats. Waiting for Dad to notice me, to really see me.
But for now, it’s wonderful to be this close.
The not-touching lasts exactly seven minutes. Matching each inhale to the digital clock’s green numbers, I count every second. Aching to reach across the void and drag him to me, but that’s not how this works. No, sirree, I need him to come to me, for my gravity to pull him to me, and for him to surrender.
In the eighth minute, my throat closes up. From nowhere, I hear myself making a tiny, wounded animal noise. Softening my voice, I ride it, making it small and breakable.
“Daddy?” I say, whisper-soft. A stone in the well of silence.
He grunts, awakens at my voice. “Yeah, bug?”
Letting the tension build, I hesitate. My heart tap-dances. “Can you ... Can you hold me?” The words tremble. “I can’t sleep.”
Another grunt, lower, tired. And Dad shifts onto his side, closes the gap, and wraps one heavy arm around my waist. The heat is shocking. His hand lands below my ribs, palm wide, thumb grazing bare skin. He pulls me into his chest, and I feel the deep vibration of his sigh as it rumbles through both our bodies. For a second, I forget to breathe.
He’s done this before—held me when the nightmares get bad, when I shake or cry or burrow under the blankets. It’s supposed to be innocent. But nothing about this is innocent, and I arch my back. Pressing the small of my spine into his body. His chest hair scratches my neck. Letting my head rest on his bicep, my cheek presses into the thick muscle.
Sensing the exact moment, he notices something’s off. When his hand slides lower, meaning to settle on my hip, it stops dead. The cotton of the hoodie ends, and nothing meets his fingers except warm, soft skin. And I feel the rough callus on his thumb trace the curve of my waist, hesitate, freeze.
But I don’t move, don’t flinch.
At first, he tries to ignore it, but he can’t. His hand tests the spot again, slow, deliberate. He must feel the strap of the thong. A thin, delicate thing, nothing close to the tomboy underwear I usually wear. As if he’s not sure what he’s touching, he flexes his fingers. The temperature in the room spikes.
For an entire minute, Daddy’s still. Then, without warning, he lifts the edge of the blanket, guarded not to move me too much. I sense his head tilt down, the breath on my shoulder, the eyes adjusting to the shadow and the glow from the window. He looks to see the lace, the exposed skin, the way the thong rides up between my cheeks. He lets the blanket drop, and I swear I hear his teeth as he grinds them.
The silence after is radioactive. With every nerve waiting for a reaction, my body hums. Drumming against my back, Daddy’s heart pounds through his chest. Then I feel something else. Hard and thick, his cock strains through the thin material of his boxers. When he tries to shift away, the friction makes it worse.
Then, I let out a tiny, involuntary giggle—a hiccup of pure, giddy triumph. The sound cracks the spell.
With his voice low and strangled, “Anne,” and he says my name as a prayer.
But I don’t answer. Letting the space fill up with my breathing, in stages, and even, as if nothing changes. But everything has.
The air turns molten.
At this moment, I taste metal, ozone, sweat. Daddy’s hand, the same one that tucked me in for a decade, moves again. It slides up my stomach, deliberate, each fingertip dragging a line of fire along my ribs.
To read the complete story you need to be logged in:
Log In or
Register for a Free account
(Why register?)
* Allows you 3 stories to read in 24 hours.