Chapter 7: Kitchen Anytime Use

The clock on the microwave glowed 8:32 a.m. when Mom’s car finally backed out of the driveway. I stood at the stove in nothing but Daddy’s oversized gray T-shirt, the hem brushing the tops of my thighs, no panties, no bra, just like the pact I’d sealed with that text last night. The fabric still carried his scent—cologne, faint garage grease, and the unmistakable musk of the morning quickie he’d given me in my bed while Mom showered. His fresh load from that silent claiming had stayed inside me through breakfast, warm and heavy, squelching softly every time I shifted in my chair across from him and Mom. Now, hours later, the remnants mixed with fresh slick made my inner thighs sticky, my pussy already throbbing with the memory of his thick cock sliding through yesterday’s creampie.

I cracked eggs into the skillet, the sizzle of butter and the pop of yolks filling the quiet kitchen. My mind replayed every detail of that dawn fuck: the way he’d spread my legs without a word, the wet glide of him churning his own dried cum, his hand clamped over my mouth while Mom hummed next door. I’d cum so hard I bit his palm, and he’d flooded me again with praise that still echoed—”Good girl ... keeping Daddy’s cum inside all day now.” The thought alone made fresh heat bloom low in my belly. My nipples peaked against the soft cotton, and I pressed my thighs together, feeling the slick slide of his mark.

The side door from the garage creaked open. Dad stepped in, still in his work jeans and boots, tool belt slung low, salt-and-pepper hair damp with morning sweat. His eyes locked on me instantly—the T-shirt riding up as I reached for the spatula, the curve of my bare ass peeking below the hem. No greeting. No hesitation. The freeuse rule we’d locked in this morning kicked in like a switch flipping. He crossed the kitchen in three strides, boots heavy on the tile.

His big hands gripped my hips from behind. The spatula trembled in my fingers as he yanked the T-shirt up to my waist in one rough motion. Cool morning air kissed my soaked pussy. I kept stirring the eggs, pan still sizzling, pretending I could focus while my heart hammered. He didn’t speak. Just freed his cock—already rock-hard, thick and veined, the head glistening—and lined up.