Daddy’s Little Fuck-Toy
Copyright© 2025 by Drcock666
Chapter 1: What made me a perverted pig
Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 1: What made me a perverted pig - This story is about a father drugging and raping his daughter and her friend. It never happened in real life; this is a completely made-up story, a fantasy. Please note: This story contains graphic scenes involving sex with minors.
Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Teenagers Coercion Consensual NonConsensual Rape Heterosexual Fiction Incest Mother Father Daughter Oral Sex Pregnancy Squirting
Jan, Janice had been away with my ex-wife’s parents for a couple of weeks. Her mom died when she was just three, and I always told myself I’d devoted my life to my little angel.
That sounds like something a good, loving father would say.
But the truth?
That couldn’t be further from the kind of man I really was.
I never met someone, but I relied on hookers or one-night stands.
Let me give you some background, so maybe you will understand.
I undressed and slipped on swimming trunks. My bathing suit fit snugly around my hips, buttocks, and crotch. The cloth material pressed upon my cock and balls, and I felt my prick stirring and growing stiff. It strained upon the bathing suit. I now had a full-fledged hard-on. But then it seemed I always had a hard-on. My dick seemed to stay in a constant state of stiffness.
I had recently undergone puberty, and my balls and cock tingled constantly, and my thoughts dwelt almost entirely on my hard, throbbing, straining dick. I stayed in a state of arousal.
I stroked my peter and masturbated a lot, but no matter how often I beat my meat, it seemed to be ready to spring up at a moment’s notice. Especially when I thought about or saw Mom.
Some nights she looked like she was headed to a bar, even if she was just going to the corner store. It was like she was trying to hold onto some version of herself from years ago, some mix of rebellion, survival, and a need to be seen, even when the world stopped looking.
We didn’t have much, barely scraping by in a rundown apartment on the edge of what some would call the slums. Everything creaked, everything felt secondhand, worn out from too many lives passing through. Mom did what she could with what little we had, though “what she could” often meant surviving one day to the next, with God only knows how. She drank heavily and passed out more nights than she didn’t, sometimes three, four times a week. Those nights, I’d quietly watch to make sure she was breathing, too young to understand, too old to pretend it wasn’t happening.
Her drinking didn’t start out like that. It crept in slowly after my dad left - at first just a glass of wine at night to “unwind,” then something stronger, and then more. When I walked out, it was like he took the last bit of her with him. Whatever strength she had left was stretched thin, and alcohol filled the silence he left behind.
I don’t think she ever expected to raise me alone, or to do it in a place where the walls were thin and hope even thinner. The drinks became her comfort, her escape, her way of numbing the sharp edges of life. What started as coping became routine - and routine eventually became a blur. That’s when I started watching over her, instead of the other way around.
She had a certain way of dressing - bold, careless, and maybe a little trashy by most standards. She wore tight jeans with rips that weren’t there by design, low-cut tops that clung too hard to her frame, and heels far too tall for someone who’d usually had too much to drink. Her makeup was heavy, often smudged, lipstick always a shade too red, and eyeliner that had long since forgotten its shape by the end of the night.
I think Mom knew I was ‘at that age,’ and I know I got caught once. She had passed my bedroom door, and she saw me lying on the bed, on top of a pillow, pumping away at it. I looked up and saw her, and I knew she’d seen me pumping the pillow.
I often thought about my mother a lot. Like I said earlier, she was so sexy, such a fox, and she was so casual and uninhibited around the house. She was somewhat flirty and free, occasionally kissing me on the cheek and touching my shoulders and arms. She tended to dress scantily, wearing a short, silky robe or shorts. And she usually kept her bedroom door open. I had seen her in various stages of undress; once, I’d seen her naked. I had passed by her bedroom and she was changing clothes. She was stark-naked. But she hadn’t acted embarrassed when I saw her. She had simply smiled at me and proceeded to dress ... But then again, I was only 12, not 19 or 20.
One day, I stepped out onto the patio, where I saw her standing up, talking on her phone, wearing a red bikini.
Despite having a fourteen-year-old son, she was quite attractive with a pretty face and a nice body. Her chestnut hair fell in full, shimmering waves past her shoulders, her eyes were big and violet, her skin was peachy tanned. The bikini she wore served only to cover the ‘bare necessities.’ Half her breasts, most of her rump, and all of her legs were exposed.
I watched her as she strolled around, talking on the phone. God, she was so sexy! he thought. I felt my dick start to grow and stiffen. She turned around and saw me standing by the patio door and called out: “Hey, Steve, I’ll just be a minute, then I’m gonna fix you some lunch.
That evening, I lay on my bed in my pajamas, doing what I usually did - stroking my prick. I thought about my mother, and my peter stiffened and balls tingled. I briskly rubbed my cock and shivered at the sensation. My dick was hard and full and throbbing...
This went on for a good couple of months, then came the day.
I remember that first time. The full moon shone strongly through the thin, transparent curtains, bathing my mom’s bedroom in a soft, silvery light. I could see her clearly, curled beneath just a sheet, the summer heat having pushed the duvet to the floor. It was quiet, almost peaceful, but the reality beneath that stillness told a different story.
I looked at her lovingly, even with everything she’d put me through, the chaos, the nights I cleaned up after her, the mornings I went to school exhausted and embarrassed, pretending everything was fine. I’d had to grow up too fast, no doubt about it. But no matter what my friends said, no matter how many times they joked or whispered about her behind my back, I still loved my mom.
And to me, she was beautiful, especially when she dressed up. On those rare nights when she pulled herself together, did her hair just right, and slipped into a dress that still had a bit of life left in it, she looked like someone from another world. Like someone who used to dream big before the weight of reality pulled her under. In those moments, I didn’t see the drunk passed out on the couch, or bed; I saw the woman she used to be ... or maybe the one she still wanted to be.
Standing at her bed, my overriding emotion was a passionate longing to quell my young lust.
She lay on her back, one leg bent at the knee, arms resting loosely across her chest and stomach, the thin sheet barely covering her. The room was quiet except for her slow, steady breathing, the kind that came after too many drinks, but for once, it felt peaceful.