Vicky Dominates Daddy
Copyright© 2026 by CreepyUnclePete - by AuthorWench
Chapter 1
Incest Sex Story: Chapter 1 - Married woman considers divorce, and siezes control of her father.
Caution: This Incest Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Consensual Heterosexual Fiction Cheating Incest Father Daughter FemaleDom Massage Oral Sex Petting Smoking
I’d screamed, “If you make me eat kale again, I swear to God, I’m leaving you for a gym rat with no frontal lobe!” That started a fierce argument, followed by the aggressive hum of my car’s tires on the asphalt. I didn’t care that it was midnight. I didn’t care that I was driving like a fugitive through the suburbs. All I could think about was Gary’s smug, pompous face and the way he tried to control my entire existence, from the way I organized the spice rack to the way he wanted me to breathe during sex.
I slammed the car door so hard the frame shuddered. I didn’t knock; I just marched into the house, smelling like female sweat, perfume, and resentment. “You were right, divorcing Mom five years ago. She’s just like my husband! He thinks he’s the architect of my life, Dad,” I barked, not even greeting him before I started pacing the living room. “Every single conversation is a chess match. He doesn’t want a wife; he wants a shiny prize that nods and agrees with his ‘superior’ logic. It’s suffocating! I feel like I’m being erased one ‘corrective’ suggestion at a time!”
My father Chris wiped the sleep from his eyes and looked at me with that infuriatingly calm expression he always wore. He didn’t interrupt the storm; he just let it rain. He stood up, his eyes soft, and gestured toward the kitchen.
“You’re shaking, Vicky,” he said softly. “Please have a seat. Do you want a glass of milk? Maybe a sandwich? You look like you haven’t eaten in days.”
“I don’t want milk, and I’m not hungry,” I snapped, though my stomach gave a traitorous growl. “Give me a beer. A cold one. And don’t tell me I’m too young. I was legal last year.”
He chuckled, a low, grounding sound, and disappeared for a moment. When he returned, he handed me a frosty mug and a bottle, and pointed toward the old green sofa. We sat there in the dim light, the silence of the house pressing in on us. I leaned back, staring at the ceiling, the beer tasting like copper and bitterness.
“I think I’m actually going to do it,” I whispered, the anger suddenly draining out of me, leaving a hollow, aching space. “The divorce. I can’t keep fighting for air in a room where he’s the only one allowed to breathe.”
Dad didn’t offer a platitude or a lecture. He just shifted closer, his shoulder brushing mine, and sighed. “Whatever you decide, you’ve got a place here. You’re not alone, Vicky. I love you.”
He was being too kind, too sickly sweet. It made me even more volatile. I looked at him, really looked at him, and felt a surge of raw, frustrated energy. I wanted to shout, or fight, or hate-fuck somebody until I remembered who I was. I yearned to scream and slap someone, but he was irritatingly sympathetic.
“Stay here,” he said, his voice a steady hum. “Move back in. You’re right, Vicky. You’re absolutely right about Gary. He’s a boss, not a partner, just like your mom. You don’t need to be a piece of art on a wall. Stay here tonight.”
“I don’t need you! I can pay for a hotel room!” I shouted, jumping to my feet. The sudden movement made the beer slosh in the mug. “I can rent a damn apartment tomorrow! The point isn’t where I sleep, Dad, the point is that I need control. For once in my life, I want to be the one deciding what I eat, how I talk, and what kind of sex I have! I just want my own goddamn autonomy!” Rage pushed me to give far too much information. “I want to make love without a cock or toy up my ass! I like it once in a while, but every damn night is too much!”
I blushed, but he didn’t flinch. He just looked up at me in shock. His expression shifted into something softer, almost tentative. “Well,” he murmured, his voice dipping into a low, meek register that felt strangely inviting. “If you really want control ... um ... sometimes you could control me, if you want?”
I froze. The air in the room suddenly felt thick, like syrup. I stared at him, my brain scrambling to translate the sentence. Control him? My heart hammered against my ribs, and a sudden, electric spark shot straight down to my thighs. I didn’t move; I couldn’t. I just stood there, shocked and confused, watching the way his throat moved when he swallowed.
He bashfully continued, “If you’re on the pill, or we use condoms, I’ll ah ... I’ll obey you. I love you very much, and I want to make you happy.”
The confusion vanished, replaced by a vivid, cinematic flash of imagery. I imagined him pinned beneath me, his quiet submission a playground for my frustration. I thought about the power of it, of taking that meekness and using it to fuel my own hunger. I imagined pushing him back into that old green sofa, stripping away the ‘father’ persona until there was nothing left but a man who wanted to be told exactly what to do. I wanted to dominate him. I wanted to see that calm expression break into a gasp of pure, unadulterated need.