Cruise Control
Copyright© 2026 by Kinjite
Chapter 7: The Taking
Incest Sex Story: Chapter 7: The Taking - A scheduling conflict pulls Frank's wife off his company's cruise retreat, and just as he's picturing a week off the leash, no wife, no ring, nobody watching, his teen daughter talks her way into her mother's spot instead. Cabin's booked for a couple. One bed. Told entirely from his side of it, start to finish. No rescue. No happy ending -- just an ending. Dark, explicit, non-con, breeding.
Caution: This Incest Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/ft Drunk/Drugged Rape Reluctant Heterosexual Fiction Incest Father Daughter Cream Pie First Pregnancy AI Generated
She stirred around eight, still half-asleep, her guard all the way down the way it was most mornings by then. I was on my back beside her, the sheet low on my hips. This morning she rolled toward me instead of away, and her hand came loose from under her cheek and landed on my stomach.
It slid down from there, the way a hand does before you’re awake enough to own it — onto the sheet, onto the shape of me under it. Then she came awake enough to feel where it was, and yanked it back like she’d touched the stove.
I caught her wrist before it got away. “Hey. It’s okay. Nothing’s happening.” I let go the second she quit pulling. “Sit up. I want to talk to you a second.”
She sat up against the headboard and pulled the sheet to her chest, and wouldn’t look at me.
“You’re fifteen,” I said. “That boy keeps pushing his number at you. There’s going to be a lot more of them coming.” I kept my voice easy. “And you don’t know the first thing about any of it. That’s how a boy gets what he wants off a girl — she doesn’t know enough to know better.”
“Dad. This is weird.”
“I know how it sounds. Hear me out.” I sat up too, slow, nothing sudden in it. “I’d rather you learned it off me, safe, where nobody’s trying to talk you into anything, than find it out the hard way in some kid’s car. Your mom’s a thousand miles back. She’ll never hear one word about this boat that we don’t tell her.” I let it sit. “You’ll walk off here knowing more than Mia’ll figure out in years. Nobody the wiser.”
She chewed the inside of her cheek, and didn’t say no.
“It’s just looking,” I said. “I’m not going to touch you.”
I pushed the sheet down off myself.
It stood straight up off my belly, hard, the way it had been every morning of the whole trip. She went still looking at it. Up close it was a lot to take in — thick and flushed dark, a fat vein running crooked up the underside of it, the head swollen out wider than the shaft and gone a deep purple-red, and the slit at the top of it already beaded wet. She’d measured this in the dark for Alexis with her own two hands. Here it was in the light.
“Come closer. You can’t see anything from way over there.” I patted the mattress by my hip. She hesitated, then shifted over onto her knees beside me, the sheet left behind, her face down near it now whether she’d meant to get that close or not.
“Go on. Touch it.” She didn’t move. So I took her hand off her knee and brought it down and closed her fingers around the shaft. They didn’t make it around — a gap left between her thumb and her fingertips — and I watched her try to close them the rest of the way and feel them stop against the thickness of it. It jumped once under her palm and she flinched, but she didn’t take her hand back.
“Feel that? How you can’t get all the way around it? That’s a big one. Most you’ll ever touch won’t be. Now you’ll know the difference.” Her eyes weren’t on me. They were on the head of it, on the fat bead of pre-come welling up clear and glistening in the slit while she watched.
“What is—”
“That’s from you. Means it likes what you’re doing.” A thread of it spilled over the rim and ran down the flare of the head, slow. “It does another job, too. That’s the stuff that makes it slide.” I kept the teaching voice even, patient. “Something this size doesn’t just go into a girl, when the time comes. That’s what lets it, without tearing her up. Bodies think of everything.” Her breath went short, and I watched her try not to picture the size of what was in her hand going into anybody. “Go on. Run your thumb over the top of it.”
One careful pass of her thumb over the wet head, and it smeared slick and shining across the purple-red of it, and strung between her thumb and the tip when she lifted off. She made a small sound in her throat.
“Now give me your other hand.” She hesitated. I took it and drew it down under the shaft and laid it over my balls, heavy and full in her small palm. “Feel the weight of them.” I let her heft them, her fingers closing careful around the sack like she couldn’t quite help testing it. “That’s the whole factory, right there. Everything a man makes gets made in these.” I said it plain, easy, and watched what I was really telling her land on her a beat behind the words. “Every baby a man is ever going to put in a girl starts its life in there. Heavy like that, this morning — that’s how you know they’re full. Working.” Her hand went still around them.
“Okay. Back up top.” I brought her hand back up and closed it around the shaft again. “Move it — up, and back down. Like this.” I laid my hand over hers and worked it slow, root to head and back, the skin sliding under her grip, the head flaring darker and tighter at the top of every stroke. A few strokes and she had it on her own — careful, clumsy, both eyes fixed on it, the fat vein standing up harder under her fingers each pass, the head wet and shining now, small slick sounds coming up between her hand and the shaft.
“That’s it. Slow.” It thickened in her fist while she worked it. “Keep going. It builds up, and then it comes out — the rest of what’s down in that factory. Don’t stop now.”
“ ... Okay.” Barely a breath, red to the ears, and she didn’t stop.
I felt it climbing and let her keep pulling it out of me. “Here—” I got out, right before, and she felt it too — felt it jerk and swell in her fist — and then it went, thick white spitting up out of the slit and over her fingers, a second rope and a third, landing across the back of her hand and pooling warm on my belly, way more of it than she’d braced for.
“That’s it. That’s the stuff.” Low, watching her watch it run down her fingers. “That’s what puts a baby in a girl. Every one of them starts as that.”
“Oh my god—” She snatched her hand back, a string of it hanging off her fingers to the tip. “Oh my god, Dad, that’s — that’s so much—”
She was up off the bed and across the cabin and shut in the bathroom before the last of it finished. The water came on.
I lay back and let it run. She’d done that herself — awake, eyes open, curious enough to let me walk her right up to it. Better than any fight would’ve been. It wasn’t what I’d meant to have off her before the day was out, but it was a long way toward it, with a whole slow sea day left to close the rest.
She stayed in there a long while — the shower going hard, then the fan, then nothing, then the shower again. I lay in the bed she’d bolted out of and listened to her not come out, and didn’t hurry her. There wasn’t any hurry left in me about it. When she finally did come out she’d scrubbed and dressed and put her whole face back on, and she crossed the cabin careful, wincing, her head and her feet both paying her back for last night, and she would not look at me. She got up onto the bed against the headboard with her knees drawn up and her phone held up in front of her face like a wall, and thumbed through it — sending Mia the gala pictures one after another, retreating into the last thing left that still felt like her ordinary life. Dad made me get it, I read upside down over her shoulder before she tipped the screen away. Same as she used to at the dinner table back home, like I hadn’t paid for the dress in the picture and half the ones under it.
“Sea day,” I said, toweling my hair, watching her in the mirror instead of at her. “Nothing on the schedule till the show tonight. Ship’s dead till everybody surfaces for lunch.”
“Mia wants to see the shoes too.” She didn’t look up. “She said I look like a whole different person.”
“You are, a little.” I said it easy, the way you’d say the weather’s turning, and went to find a shirt so she wouldn’t catch what was under it.
We didn’t do much with the day. Sea days ran slack like that — nothing scheduled, nothing to dress for, the whole ship gone quiet and lazy. It left the two of us with nothing between us but time. We ate a late breakfast at the buffet, half the tables empty, sunburned families picking at eggs. Josh found her there — of course he did, he’d been finding her everywhere all week. He was careful about it, though. Careful the way a young man is when he’s got a job to lose and just enough sense to know it. He pulled out the chair across from her, asked was the food any good, turned his phone around to show her something from the last port, laughed too hard at whatever she said back. Nothing anybody could take to anybody. Nothing his hands or his mouth ever brought near the line — just a grown man finding one more reason to be wherever she was, looking at her the way he’d been looking at her all week when he thought nobody clocked it.
When he finally got to what he’d come over for, it was small and deniable and plainly rehearsed. “Bunch of us younger ones are doing the trivia thing tonight, if you’re around.” Then, offhand, like it was an afterthought and not the whole point: “I’ll add you to the group chat — here.” And he wrote his own handle out on the corner of a napkin instead, no number, nothing a soul could ever call a number, and slid it across, and stood there red to the ears while she took it.
And I watched my daughter light up.
Not for him, exactly — I don’t think she’d have crossed a room for Josh on her own. For the fact of it. A grown man, a man with a job and a car and a five o’clock shadow, had come the whole length of a dining room to get near her and gone shy doing it. She’d spent the entire trip trying to look twenty-five, and here was the first hard proof it had landed on somebody old enough to count. She sat up a little straighter. Tucked the napkin away without looking at it, careful, like it might be worth something. There was a thrill running all through her she didn’t trouble to hide, because she didn’t know yet that it showed — a girl finding out she had a new kind of pull on the world, and liking the taste of it more than she’d have ever admitted.
I let it happen. Cost me nothing, a scrap of paper she’d lose in a pocket eventually. There was no percentage in making a scene over a kid who’d never get anywhere near what I already had. I watched him walk off happy as a dog and thought about how little of anything he’d ever get. She had a cover-up thrown on over yesterday’s bikini top, thin enough that I could still trace the shape of her under it if I let my eyes do what they wanted. Out here in front of two hundred strangers I mostly didn’t. I put my hand flat on the small of her back to steer her toward the pool deck, and felt her go a little stiff under it the way she still did in front of people, even now.
“You could’ve said something,” she said, once he was out of earshot. Not quite a complaint.
“About what.”
“I don’t know. Anything. You just stood there.”
“He’s a nice kid. Wanted your number, is all. Not going to make a thing of it.” I steered her past the pool, toward the rail instead, away from the deck chairs where half of marketing was laid out working on their sunburns. “You keeping it?”
“Maybe.” A shrug that wasn’t one. She balled the napkin up in her fist without looking at it again and I watched her not throw it away either, and let that be its own small answer, and didn’t press it.
We stood at the rail a while after that, not talking, the wake unspooling white and endless behind us and no land anywhere in any direction. Two more sea days before the next port, the itinerary card had said. Out here it might as well have been the whole ocean between us and anywhere that mattered — the two of us and a rail and a couple thousand strangers who’d forget both our faces inside a week regardless.
She’d handed me the clock herself, back in the cabin, and never knew she’d done it — this week, she’d said, red to the ears, trying the word ovulation out in her mouth like it was new. I’d been counting off it ever since. The days were nearly gone. Right now, tonight, she was ripe — her body swung wide open and ready to catch, the way it only gets for a few days out of the whole month. After tonight, tomorrow at the outside, it shut again, and I’d be waiting on a month I didn’t have.
I’d spent the whole trip hard over it. Getting in her — that was the thing I kept coming back to, lying awake a foot from her every night. Being the first ever to get there. Feeling that tight, unused little body give and take the whole length of me, and then holding deep and emptying myself into her raw, every last drop, consequences be damned. Her being ripe like this only sharpened it — the taking and the breeding turned into the same act, a baby put in her on the same stroke that made her mine.
I didn’t book us a table that night. Told her I wanted the two of us to ourselves for once, no department, no Diane leaning across the table. Ordered up instead — a whole spread of it wheeled in on a cart with silver domes — and set it out on the little table on the balcony where we could watch the light go while we ate. She liked that better anyway. She’d never had room service before this week and it still felt like a magic trick to her: the cart appearing, the domes coming off, food that materialized instead of getting cooked.
“This is nicer than the dining room,” she said, working on a shrimp, her bare feet tucked up under her on the balcony chair, the wind off the water pulling strands of hair loose from wherever she’d pinned them. She’d put on one of the sundresses from home for it, nothing dressed-up, and looked more like herself in it than she had all week in anything I’d bought her. I still spent more of that meal on the shape of her under the cotton than on my own plate. “Just us.”
“Just us,” I said, and meant more by it than she did. I opened the champagne and poured her a glass without asking, and one for myself. We sat out there while the sun went down orange and then pink and then nothing at all, and the water turned from blue to black to a kind of moving dark you could only tell was moving by the sound of it against the hull.
She talked more than she had all trip. Told me about Mia’s summer, some drama with a boy neither of us had ever met, asked would we come back next year. Said this was the best thing that had ever happened to her, and she meant the whole of it — the pool, the ports, the gown, some of it maybe even the parts that should have sent her running. I sat there across the little table from my own daughter and let her say it, and felt something under my ribs that had no business being there, something almost like what a father is supposed to feel, listening to his kid be happy. I let myself have about thirty seconds of it before I put it away. There was work left to do tonight, and a soft thing like that wasn’t going to help me do it.
“You’ve had a good week,” I said instead, refilling her glass before she’d finished asking for it.
“The best.” She said it easy, looser already, two glasses in and warm from the wind and the last of the sun. “I didn’t want to. When you first said the cabin thing, I thought — “ She stopped, went a little pink, pushed on anyway, brave with the champagne in her. “I thought it was going to be the worst week of my life. And it wasn’t. I don’t even know how to explain it to Mia. She wouldn’t get it.”
“No,” I said. “She wouldn’t.” And drank, and watched her, and thought: good. Hold onto that a little longer. I need you soft tonight, not scared.
I moved my chair around next to hers once it was properly dark, the plates cleared, nothing left on the table but the bottle and the two glasses. I put my arm along the back of her chair the way I had a hundred times that week, and she let her head come down against my shoulder without being asked, loose and warm and full of champagne and the easy, drifting good-feeling of a day that had gone exactly right. I could feel her heartbeat where her shoulder pressed my chest, slow and easy, no idea yet what was coming.
I let my hand find her hair. Combed it back off her face with my fingers, slow, the way you’d gentle a horse. She made a small sound low in her throat and didn’t pull away. I kept at it — down the side of her neck, along her bare shoulder, back up into her hair again — for longer than a father has any business doing that to his daughter, until the touch itself had stopped meaning anything to her but good and warm and safe.
“Come here,” I said, and drew her up out of her chair and in against me, standing, her back to my chest and the black water going by beyond the rail, my arms crossed low around her waist. She let herself be held there a minute, easy, watching the dark. Then my hand slid up, unhurried, and closed over her breast through the thin cotton of the dress. I felt her whole body catch.
“Dad—”
“Shh.” I didn’t stop. Kneaded her slow through the fabric, found the peak of her already hard against my palm, and put my mouth to the side of her neck, and felt the champagne-warm pulse of her going quick under my lips. “Nobody’s going to know. Just you and me out here.”
“We should go in.” Her voice had gone thin, careful, the good-time softness draining out of it fast now that she felt where my hand had landed. “Somebody could—”
“There’s nobody out here but water for a mile in every direction.” True enough — I’d checked the balconies either side an hour before, both dark, both empty, some family already packed and asleep for an early tender tomorrow. “Nobody’s watching you, sweetheart. It’s just us. Like you said.”
She let me turn her around inside my arms, mostly because turning was easier than fighting. I walked her the two steps back through the sliding door into the cabin, my hand at the small of her back the way it had steered her all week, and she went, because going had always been easier than the alternative. Right up until tonight, it wasn’t going to be enough anymore either way.
I killed the overhead and left the little bedside lamp, low and warm. She stood swaying a little in the middle of the room, loose and pink from the champagne, and I took her face in both hands and kissed her. On the mouth, slow — not the way I’d kissed her all week, the forehead, the top of her head. She made a small startled sound against my lips and went stiff, and I didn’t stop, just kept it soft and easy until the stiffness went back out of her. Tipsy and warm and not thinking it through, she kissed me back. Clumsy at it. Let me open her mouth with mine and put my tongue in it, and made another sound, lower this time, and caught the front of my shirt in both hands to keep her feet under her.
It was my hands that gave it away, not the kiss — leaving her face, sliding the sundress straps down off her shoulders. She caught the front of the dress against her chest on reflex and surfaced out of the kiss all at once, half-laughing, a nervous, tipsy, embarrassed sound, still down in the warm easy place where this was only more of what had been going on all night.
“Dad—” A giggle cracked it. “What’re you—”
“Same as this morning. Just us.” I worked her hands off the front of the dress and let it drop, and she let me — red to the chest, giggling, not stopping me — and there she was in her plain white cotton underwear, arms half up and half down, stuck between covering herself and the loose floating feeling that none of it was really counting.
That was what the champagne and the morning had done between them. She thought she knew the shape of this now — a thing that happened, and got embarrassing, and stopped, and then everybody went back to normal. She was sure it would stop where it always stopped.
I let her keep thinking it a good while. Sat her down on the edge of the bed and knelt in front of her and kissed her again — deeper now, slower, and she let me, clumsy and giggling into it — and put my hands on her, over the cotton and then up under it, and she squirmed and gasped and half-helped and went along, warm and loose and certain it would quit before it got anywhere near the part she’d been promised it wouldn’t. Her hands even came up to my shoulders once and held on. She wasn’t wanting it. She was drunk, and it was warm, and I’d spent a week teaching her that folding cost less than fighting it.
Then I stood up and stripped off, everything, and stood there in the lamplight and let her look.
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.