A Father's Weekend
Copyright© 2026 by Kinjite
Chapter 1: The Invitation
Incest Sex Story: Chapter 1: The Invitation - Emma thinks a weekend in the mountains is just another awkward obligation with her divorced dad. She doesn't know it's a desperate bid for closeness—or that her father's charismatic mentor has brought his own teenage daughter to serve as a living example. In the isolating silence of the remote cabin, a brutal philosophy of intimacy will be taught, and Emma will become the final, necessary step in her father's education.
Caution: This Incest Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/ft Coercion NonConsensual Reluctant Heterosexual Fiction Incest Father Daughter Cream Pie First Oral Sex Pregnancy AI Generated
Part 1: Friday Night - The Weekly Dinner
The silence in the car was broken only by the swish of the wipers and Emma’s third, heavy sigh in as many minutes.
Paul’s grip tightened on the steering wheel. “You don’t have to do that, you know.”
“Do what?” Emma’s voice was flat, her eyes fixed on her phone screen.
“The sighing.”
“I’m breathing.”
“You’re making a point.”
Emma scrolled through her Instagram feed without looking up. “I’m literally just breathing, Dad.”
Paul’s jaw tightened. He counted to five. Dr. Wendy—the family therapist Sarah had insisted he see—said he should “acknowledge her feelings without escalating.” He’d practiced this.
“I get that you’d rather be doing something else,” he started carefully. “But this could be—”
“I have homework.”
The words landed like a slap. Not I’d rather be home. Not even I’m busy. Just the clinical fact of homework—a wall between them that he couldn’t argue with.
Paul swallowed the response that wanted to come out. Instead, he tried again. “It’s just dinner, Em. One hour. We do this every week.”
“I know.” She still wasn’t looking at him.
“So is it really that terrible? Spending an hour with me?”
Emma’s thumb stopped scrolling. For a moment, Paul thought she might actually engage. Might actually look at him.
Then she just shrugged. “It’s fine.”
Fine. That word again. The word that meant everything and nothing. The word that was somehow worse than anger.
Paul pulled into the parking lot of the Thai place—the one Emma used to love, back when she was eleven and would order pad see ew and tell him about her day without being prompted. Now she ordered pad thai (when did that change?) and spent half the meal checking her phone.
He killed the engine. The rain drummed on the roof.
“Can you take those out?” Paul gestured to her earbuds. “Just while we eat?”
Emma pulled them out with visible reluctance, letting them dangle around her neck like she might need them again at any moment. “What?”
“Nothing. Just ... let’s go eat.”
Inside, they settled into their usual booth near the back. Emma kept her phone on the table, screen-up, checking it every thirty seconds even though no notifications came through.
Paul ordered for both of them—he still remembered what she liked, even if everything else felt foreign. When the food came, Emma poked at her noodles without much interest.
“How’s school?” Paul tried.
“Fine.”
“Anything interesting happening?”
“Not really.”
Paul’s hands tightened on his fork. “Your mom mentioned you had a biology test last week. How’d that go?”
Emma looked up briefly, surprise flickering across her face. “It was okay. Got a B-plus.”
“That’s great, Em.”
She shrugged. “It’s fine.”
The conversation died again. Around them, the restaurant hummed with other families—couples laughing, parents talking easily with their teenagers, the comfortable rhythm of people who knew how to be together.
Paul watched his daughter push noodles around her plate and felt the familiar ache of inadequacy settle in his chest. He used to know how to talk to her. Used to know what made her laugh, what worried her, what she dreamed about. Now he knew nothing.
“Em,” he said quietly. “Can I ask you something?”
She looked up, wary. “What?”
“Do you...” He stopped, searching for the right words. “Do you hate these dinners? Honestly?”
Emma’s face softened slightly. “I don’t hate them.”
“But you don’t like them either.”
She was quiet for a moment, her fork tracing patterns in the sauce on her plate. “It’s just awkward, Dad. Everything is awkward now.”
“It doesn’t have to be.”
“But it is.” She finally met his eyes. “We don’t know how to talk to each other anymore. You ask me about school, I say it’s fine. You ask about my friends, I give you one-word answers. Then we both sit here trying to think of what to say next.” She paused. “It’s exhausting.”
Paul’s throat tightened. “I’m trying, Em. I know I don’t always know what to say, but I’m trying.”
“I know you are.” Her voice was softer now. “But trying doesn’t make it less awkward.”
They finished eating in near-silence, the weight of everything unsaid pressing down on them. When the check came, Paul paid quickly, eager to end the discomfort but dreading the return to complete separation.
In the parking lot, Emma pulled out her phone immediately, her earbuds going back in before they even reached the car.
Paul watched her disappear behind that digital wall and felt something close to despair.
This was all he got. Forty-eight hours every other weekend. One dinner a week. And every minute of it felt like pulling teeth.
There had to be a better way.
Part 2: Friday Night - At the Alley
“Em, why don’t you take those out?” Paul gestured to her earbuds as they pulled into the parking lot at Bayside Bowl. “We’re here.”
Emma removed them slowly, suspicion already creeping into her expression. “Why are we at a bowling alley?”
“I told you. We’re meeting some people.”
“What people?”
Paul killed the engine. “Chuck Bass. And his daughter, Lexi. You’ve met them before. Twice.”
Emma’s face went carefully blank. “The weird guy and his weird daughter.”
“They’re not weird, Em. Chuck’s been ... he’s been really helpful. To me. I thought it would be nice to spend some time with them. As a group.”
“We’ve already spent time with them.” Emma’s voice was flat. “Mini golf. And that movie. It was awkward both times.”
“That’s because you barely talked to Lexi.”
“Lexi barely talks to anyone.”
“Maybe she’s shy.”
“She’s off, Dad.” Emma stared at the neon bowling alley sign reflecting in the puddles. “And her dad is worse. He stares.”
Paul’s hands tightened on the wheel. “He’s just observant. Some people are like that.”
“He stares at us. At me and Lexi. The whole time. It’s creepy.”
“Emma, come on—”
“And the way he talks to her.” Emma turned to look at her father. “It’s like ... I don’t know. Like she’s not his daughter. Like she’s something else.”
Paul’s stomach twisted. He’d noticed it too—the odd dynamic between Chuck and Lexi. The way Chuck’s hand would rest on her shoulder just a beat too long. The way Lexi would go very still when he touched her. But Chuck had explanations for everything. Single dads have to be more hands-on. We don’t have moms to do the emotional heavy lifting.
“You’re reading into things,” Paul said, more to convince himself than her. “Chuck’s a good guy. He’s helped me understand a lot about ... about how to connect with you. With teenage daughters.”
Emma’s expression was unreadable. “By taking us bowling?”
“By spending time together. Building relationships.” Paul reached for the door handle. “Come on. Just give it a chance. For me?”
Emma didn’t move. “How long do we have to stay?”
“An hour. Maybe two.”
“Fine.” She climbed out of the car, her hood already going up, her phone already in her hand. “But I’m not pretending to have fun.”
The bowling alley was loud and bright, a Friday night crowd of families and teenagers and birthday parties. Paul spotted Chuck immediately—standing by lane seven, arms spread wide like he was greeting family instead of near-strangers.
“Paul! There’s my guy!” Chuck’s voice boomed over the noise. His handshake was firm, confident. Then his eyes slid past Paul to Emma. “And Emma. Good to see you again.” His smile was warm, knowing. “Third time’s the charm, right? Maybe tonight you and Lexi will actually exchange more than two words.”
Emma’s responding smile was polite and completely empty. “Hi, Mr. Bass.”
“Chuck, please. Mr. Bass makes me feel old.” He turned, gesturing behind him. “Lexi! Come say hello.”
Lexi materialized from behind her father like she’d been waiting for her cue. She wore a fitted black t-shirt and jean shorts that seemed wrong for November, her blonde hair cut in a sharp, perfect bob. She looked at Emma with an expression that wasn’t quite a smile.
“Hey.”
“Hi.”
The two girls stood there, the contrast stark—Emma hunched in her oversized hoodie, Lexi straight-backed and composed. Neither moved to continue the conversation.
Chuck laughed, unbothered. “Well, that’s that, then. Paul, grab lane shoes while I get us some pitchers? They’ve got a new IPA on tap that’s supposed to be fantastic.”
“I don’t really—” Paul started, but Chuck was already walking toward the bar, clearly expecting to be followed.
Paul looked at Emma. “Just ... try, okay?”
Emma didn’t answer. She was already walking toward the shoe rental counter, her phone back in her hand.
Part 3: Friday Night - On Lane Seven
An hour in, Paul had given up on the idea of this being fun.
Emma sat in the scoring chair, typing something on her phone. On the lane, Lexi approached the line with eerie precision. Her ball—custom, sleek black with her name etched in silver—rolled in a perfect, dead-straight line. Strike number seven.
She didn’t celebrate. Just walked back to the ball return, her face expressionless.
“That girl’s a machine,” Chuck said, clapping his hands once in appreciation. He’d had three beers and was working on his fourth. “You should see her at competitions. State runner-up last year.”
“That’s great,” Paul said, because what else was there to say?
“Dedication. That’s what that is.” Chuck leaned back in his plastic chair, his eyes tracking Lexi as she sat down a careful distance from Emma. “She puts in the work. Doesn’t complain. Just shows up and performs.”
There was something in the way he said performs that made Paul’s skin prickle, but he pushed the feeling down. He was reading into things. Emma had gotten into his head.
“Your turn, Paul!” Chuck gestured at the lane. “Show ‘em how it’s done.”
Paul stood, selected a house ball that was too light, and threw a gutter ball. Chuck laughed—not meanly, just amused. Emma didn’t look up from her phone.
On his second throw, Paul managed to hit three pins. It felt like a metaphor for his entire life.
When he returned to the seats, Chuck was watching him with an expression that was hard to read. Sympathetic, maybe. Or pitying.
“You’re trying too hard,” Chuck said quietly, leaning in so the girls couldn’t hear. “I can see it from here. You’re thinking about every word before you say it. Every move. It’s exhausting, right?”
Paul’s throat tightened. “I just don’t want to mess up.”
“And that’s exactly the problem, brother.” Chuck’s hand landed on Paul’s shoulder, heavy and warm. “You can’t build a relationship when you’re walking on eggshells. Kids can smell fear.”
“I’m not afraid of my own daughter.”
“Aren’t you?”
The question landed like a physical blow. Paul wanted to deny it, but the words wouldn’t come.
Chuck squeezed his shoulder once, then released him. “It’s okay. That’s why we’re doing this. You’re taking steps. That’s more than most guys do.”
“Yeah.” Paul tried to smile. “Thanks.”
“Anytime, man. Anytime.”
Chuck stood and stretched, then moved to where Lexi sat. He crouched beside her, his hand resting on her knee as he said something Paul couldn’t hear. Lexi’s face remained blank, but she nodded. Chuck’s hand lingered for a moment before he stood again, moving back to his beer.
Paul watched the interaction, Emma’s words echoing in his head. He stares at us. It’s creepy.
He pushed the thought away.
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