Daddy's Girls
by Oldnfashioned
Copyright© 2026 by Oldnfashioned
Incest Sex Story: Claire drags her 14 yo daughter Riley to the nursing home, desperate for them to bond, but Walter’s dementia has blurred the lines of reality. He mistakes Riley for her mother at fourteen and whispers a forbidden request that should send her running. Instead, the taboo sparks a dark hunger. Riley begins returning in secret, willing to step into a role she was never meant to play. He thinks she’s his daughter. She knows she’s crossing a line she can never uncross. Just how far will she go?
Caution: This Incest Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/ft Fa/ft Consensual Reluctant BiSexual Heterosexual Fiction Incest Mother Father Daughter Cream Pie Exhibitionism Masturbation Oral Sex Voyeurism .
The leather seat of Mom’s SUV stuck to the back of my thigh through the hole in my jeans. I shifted my weight to get comfortable. My platform sneaker squeaked against the floor mat. Mom winced at the noise. She didn’t say anything. She just gripped the steering wheel harder. Her knuckles looked white against the dark leather.
The car smelled like her. It always did. That expensive perfume, wood sage and sea salt, filled up the whole small space. I tapped my thumb against my phone screen and scrolled through Instagram. I didn’t actually look at the photos. The black polish on my thumbnail was chipped. I picked at the white edge of the nail underneath. I peeled a flake of paint off just to do something.
“Riley, please stop that,” Mom said. Her voice sounded calm. I knew that tone, though. She used it right before she snapped. “You’re making a mess.”
I flicked the piece of polish onto the floor mat. “It’s barely anything. Besides, we’ve been in this car for forty minutes. I’m bored.”
“We’re almost there,” she said. She glanced at me. She checked my face, my hair, and my outfit. I pulled the sleeves of my oversized band tee down over my hands. “Put the phone away. We’re here to see your grandfather. Not check your likes.”
I groaned and dropped the phone into my lap. “He doesn’t even know who I am, Mom. Seriously. Last time he thought I was the nurse. The time before that, he just stared at the wall. This is pointless.”
“It is not pointless,” she said. She let out a long sigh. “He’s family, Riley. Even if he’s confused, he appreciates the company. You’ll wish you spent more time with him one day.”
I looked out the window. We turned into the driveway of the nursing home. It looked like a beige hotel. “You go every week,” I muttered. “You’re obsessed with him. It’s weird.”
The car stopped in a visitor spot. Mom didn’t unlock the doors yet. She looked in the rearview mirror instead. She smoothed her blonde hair and adjusted her silk blouse. I watched her pull the fabric lower so it tucked into her pencil skirt. Her fingers touched the top button to check it. She usually only did that before big work meetings.
“I am not obsessed,” she said. Her voice sounded quiet. She stared at her reflection. “He’s my father. He took care of me. I’m just returning the favor.”
“He’s slipping, though,” I said. That’s what she told Dad on the phone last night. “You said he barely makes sense anymore.”
“He has good days and bad days,” she said. She unlocked the doors, and the click sounded loud. “Sometimes he’s confused about where he is. Sometimes he remembers things vividly, though.”
“Like what?” I asked.
She hesitated. She bit her lip for a second. “Just old memories,” she said. She unbuckled her seatbelt. Her cheeks looked pinker than they did a minute ago. “Things from when I was your age. He confuses the timeline sometimes.”
“You’re acting weird,” I said.
She laughed, but it was just a short breath. “I’m just tired, Riley. Come on. Let’s not keep him waiting.”
I shoved my phone into the back pocket of my jeans. “Fine. But I’m staying for an hour. Max. I have plans tonight.”
Mom smiled at me then. It looked real this time. She reached over and squeezed my knee. “I’m glad you’re coming. It means a lot to me.”
I shrugged. I felt a little guilty. I pulled the door handle. “Whatever.”
She stepped out into the afternoon sun. She smoothed her skirt over her hips one last time. I followed her. She stood up taller and pulled her shoulders back to get ready.
The nursing home smelled like bleach and dirty laundry. I sat in the hard plastic chair and jammed my back against the rigid plastic. The air conditioning was broken, so sweat gathered in the hollow of my throat.
I scrolled through TikTok to avoid looking at the bed. The room was beige on beige. The only sound was the machine next to the bed and the wet breath of the man in it.
Walter Carter looked small. The sheets were tucked tight, and his body was a shallow lump under the fabric. His skin was pale and spotted. He looked pathetic.
“Doesn’t he look peaceful?” Mom whispered.
She stood by the bedside with her hand on the metal rail. She looked like the perfect daughter. Her silk blouse was pristine despite the heat.
“He looks asleep,” I mumbled. I tapped the screen of my phone.
“Riley, put the phone away,” Mom said. Her voice was calm but edged with pressure. “Just for a few minutes. Be present.”
I sighed and dropped the phone into my lap. I crossed my arms. “He doesn’t even know we’re here, Mom. This is performative.”
“He knows,” she insisted. She brushed a wisp of white hair off his forehead. “Deep down, he knows.”
I stared at the wall and counted the seconds between the clicks of the machine. I wanted to be anywhere else. I wanted to be in my room or smoking behind the bleachers. Anywhere but this box of dying people.
Walter shifted. His eyelids peeled open. His eyes were watery and grey. He blinked to clear his vision and looked at Mom first. Then his head turned. He looked at me.
His face sharpened. The confusion drained away. He didn’t blink. He just stared.
“Claire,” he rasped.
Mom leaned over the rail. “No, Daddy. I’m Claire. That’s Riley. Remember? That’s my daughter.”
Walter kept his eyes locked on me. “Claire,” he said again. He sounded sure. “You wore the blue top.”
I looked down at my black t-shirt.
“He’s confused,” Mom said to me with a tight smile. “His memory plays tricks on him.”
I shifted in the chair. Walter dropped his gaze to my neck. Then he looked lower. He stared right at my chest. It was a heavy look. It made my skin prickle.
He licked his lips slowly. “You look good,” he muttered. “Filled out.”
Mom laughed, but the sound was brittle. “He’s just happy to see you, Riley.”
I felt a weird flush. It was creepy, but I sat up straighter. I knew I looked like Mom did at fourteen. Everyone said so. Walter remembered that shape. He looked at me like I was a girl.
Walter started to cough gently.
“Oh, you need some water,” Mom said. She checked the empty pitcher. “I’ll go find a nurse or the ice machine. It’s so hot in here.”
“Hurry back,” I said. The words came out fast. I didn’t want to be alone with him.
“Talk to him, Riley. He loves the sound of your voice.”
She walked out. Her heels clicked on the linoleum, and the door shut with a heavy thud.
The silence was instant. I looked at Walter. I expected him to drift back to sleep.
He didn’t. He turned his head and pinned me with that stare again. The frailty evaporated. He looked alert. He looked hungry.
“Come here,” he said.
The authority in his voice surprised me. It wasn’t the voice of a confused old man.
I stayed in the chair. “I can hear you from here, Grandpa.”
“Claire,” he whispered. “Don’t be like that. Come here. No one is here.”
My heart beat faster. He still thought I was her. I stood up slowly. I told myself I was humoring him because he was sick. I walked to the edge of the bed but kept a distance from the rail.
He reached out. The movement was fast. He grabbed my wrist. His grip was shocking. It was strong. It was a man’s grip.
“I missed you,” he said. His voice dropped low. He pulled me closer. My hip bumped against the metal bed rail.
“Grandpa, let go,” I said. “I’m not Claire.”
He ignored me. He squeezed my wrist and rubbed his thumb over the inside of my arm. His eyes traveled down my body. He looked at the exposed skin of my stomach where my shirt rode up. He looked at the front of my jeans. The look was raw.
“Do you think you could...” He paused. His eyes came back to mine, focused and blue. “You know. Again? Like you used to?”
I froze. My brain tried to find a normal explanation.
His hand moved. He tugged my hand down toward the sheets. Toward the hospital blanket tented over his lap.
“I’ve missed it,” he groaned. “You always had the softest hands, Claire.”
I yanked my hand back and stumbled a step away. My heart hammered against my ribs. “What the fuck?”
Walter didn’t look ashamed. He looked disappointed. He looked frustrated.
“Just a touch,” he whispered. He sounded desperate. “Just like before. Remember? It was our secret.”
My stomach flipped. Our secret.
He thought he was talking to Mom.
A heavy feeling settled in my gut. He wasn’t asking for water. He was asking for something specific. Something he remembered getting.
I stared at him. I should have been disgusted. I was disgusted. But underneath the revulsion, something else sparked. A dark jolt. He wanted me. He wanted me so bad he projected his past onto me.
And Mom ... did she?
The way he looked at me wasn’t senility. It was muscle memory.
My breath came fast. I stared at the bulge under his blanket. It wasn’t flat. It was rising. He was hard.
I looked at his face. He watched me with greedy eyes. For a second, I wondered what it would feel like. To be the object of that kind of secret. To know something Mom didn’t think I knew.
The door handle turned.
Walter’s eyes snapped shut. His head rolled back onto the pillow. His mouth fell open. He was a corpse again instantly.
Mom bustled in, bringing a gust of cooler air. “Found some ice,” she announced. She poured water into a cup. “Did you two have a nice chat?”
I looked at Walter. He let out a soft snore. Then I looked at Mom. She smiled as she arranged the cup. She looked innocent.
“Yeah,” I said. “We talked.”
“Good. I’m glad.”
We left five minutes later. The walk to the car was silent. The heat of the parking lot hit me like a weight. I got into the passenger seat and buckled up. I didn’t pull out my phone. My hands felt weird. I rubbed the wrist where he had grabbed me. I could still feel the phantom pressure of his fingers.
Mom started the engine and turned on the AC. “See? That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
I looked at the nursing home entrance. I thought about the strength in his grip. The way he looked at my mouth. The secret he thought we shared.
“Mom?”
“Yes, honey?” She checked her lipstick in the mirror.
“Can we come back soon?” I asked. I watched her profile. “Actually, can I come back by myself next time? You know, so you can have a break?”
Mom turned to me. Her face lit up. She looked relieved and happy that I was finally acting like a dutiful daughter. She reached over and squeezed my knee.
“Really?” She beamed. “Oh, Riley. That would be wonderful. I’m so proud of you.”
I smiled back. It was a small, tight smile. “Yeah. I think he gets confused with too many people in the room. It might be better if it’s just me.”
“You’re right,” she said. She put the car in reverse. “He always did prefer one-on-one time.”
I leaned back as the car rolled out of the lot. I felt a buzzing in my veins. I needed to know if he would ask again. Next time, without Mom there to stop it, I wanted to see how far he would go.
The smell of the nursing home hit me harder without Mom there to filter it. It was a thick wall of pine cleaner, boiled vegetables, and something stale that lived in the carpet fibers. Usually, Mom’s perfume created a little bubble of safety around us. She would chatter about traffic or the weather, filling the silence.
Today, there was just the silence.
I walked down the hallway, counting the doors. My sneakers squeaked on the linoleum. A nurse at the station looked up, her eyes tired and uninterested. I gave a small wave, tight and quick, and kept walking.
I told Mom I wanted to bond. I told her I felt bad about how I acted last week. She ate it up. When she dropped me off, she looked at me like I was finally becoming the good girl she wanted.
I was lying.
My palms were sweating. I wiped them on my jeans. My heart wasn’t beating, it was thudding, a heavy, dull rhythm against my ribs. I wasn’t here to bond. I was here because I couldn’t stop thinking about the look in his eyes.
I needed to know if I had imagined it. Maybe he was just a confused old man grabbing at some dream. Maybe I was the pervert for thinking it was something else. I needed to prove to myself that it was innocent so I could go back to being bored.
But deep down, in the pit of my stomach where the nerves twisted into a hot knot, I knew I wasn’t looking for innocence.
Room 304 was at the end of the hall. The door was cracked open.
I pushed it inward. The hinges didn’t creak. The room was dim, the blinds drawn against the late afternoon sun.
Walter sat in his wheelchair by the window. He was facing away from me, his head tipped back slightly. He was wearing a flannel shirt that was too big for him and gray sweatpants.
I stood in the doorway. My breath trapped in my throat. This was the moment to turn around. I could go to the vending machine, buy a soda, wait twenty minutes, and tell Mom we had a great time.
I stepped inside.
“Grandpa?” I said. My voice sounded thin.
He didn’t move. I walked closer, rounding the edge of the bed. The hospital mattress was stripped, waiting for fresh sheets.
Walter turned his head.
His eyes were clear. Last week, they had been milky and drifting, until that one moment. Now, they locked onto me instantly. There was no confusion. There was no searching.
He smiled. It wasn’t a nice smile. It was a knowing one.
“You came back,” he said.
It wasn’t a question. It was a statement of satisfaction. His voice scratched, low and rough.
I stopped just out of reaching distance. “I ... yeah. I came to visit.”
He looked me up and down. His gaze felt physical. It touched my chest, my waist, the curve of my hips in my jeans. It was heavy.
“I knew you wouldn’t leave me waiting, Claire,” he said softly.
My real name sat on my tongue. I’m Riley. I should say it. I should correct him right now. I’m Riley, your granddaughter.
I looked at him. He looked expectant. He looked hungry.
I swallowed the correction. I let it slide down my throat and settle in the tightness of my gut.
“I’m here,” I said instead.
He lifted his hand. It was a command. He tapped the armrest of his chair, then opened his fingers, palm up. He wanted me closer.
I took a step. Then another. The air in the room felt thick, charged with static. I sat on the edge of the unmade bed, facing him. Our knees were inches apart.
“Come here,” he murmured.
I leaned in. He reached out and placed his hand on my thigh.
The contact made me jump internally, but I stayed still. His skin was dry, like parchment paper, but hot. His fingers were long and thick-knuckled. He squeezed. His grip was surprisingly firm. He wasn’t frail. Not where it counted.
He rubbed his thumb in a slow circle against the denim of my jeans.
“You wore these for me,” he whispered. “You know I like seeing your legs.”
I looked down at his hand on my thigh. It looked wrong. It looked obscene. The wrinkled, spotted skin against my tight blue jeans. He began to slide his hand up.
I stopped breathing. He moved higher, past my knee, toward my hip. He wasn’t shaking. His movement was deliberate. He owned the space between us.
Then he stopped. He lifted his hand from my leg and reached for my own hand, which was resting on the mattress. He laced his fingers through mine.
“Help me,” he said.
He pulled my hand toward him. Toward his lap.
My heart hammered so hard I thought he could see it in my neck. I let him guide me. My arm felt loose, heavy, like it belonged to someone else.
He placed my hand on the gray sweatpants, right at the juncture of his thighs.
I gasped. A small, sharp sound.
He was hard.
Under the soft cotton, there was a rigid, heavy shape. It was thick. Much thicker than I expected. He was almost eighty years old. It shouldn’t have been possible. But there it was, throbbing against my palm through the fabric.
I stared at his crotch. The tent in his pants was unmistakable.
“Claire,” he groaned. His head tipped back, his eyes closing. “You kept me waiting so long.”
The heat coming off him was intense. My fingers curled instinctively, cupping the weight of him. I shouldn’t be doing this. This was insane. This was my grandfather.
But he didn’t see a granddaughter. He saw a woman he wanted. And the way he moaned my mother’s name, it twisted something dark inside me. It made me feel powerful. It made me wet.
“Take it out,” he ordered. His eyes were still closed. “Let me see you hold it.”
My mouth went dry. My pulse thundered in my ears, drowning out the hum of the air conditioner.
I moved my other hand to his waistband. The elastic was tight. I hooked my thumbs under it.
I hesitated. This was the line. If I pulled these pants down, there was no going back. I would never be able to unsee this.
Walter’s hips bucked upward, a small, impatient jerk. “Now.”
I pulled.
The gray cotton slid down his pale thighs.
His cock sprang free.
It was large. Thick and angry-looking, pointing up toward his navel. The skin was darker than the rest of him, veiny and purple at the head. It bobbed with his heartbeat. A clear drop of fluid glistened at the slit.
A sudden waft of musk, sweat, and something harsh like ammonia filled the small space between us. It wasn’t the sterile smell of the hallway. It was raw and distinctively male.
I stared at it. It was so big.
“Touch it,” he rasped.
My hand hovered. I was trembling now. The curiosity that brought me here had turned into a starving, gnawing need. I wanted to know how it felt.
I wrapped my fingers around him.
He hissed through his teeth. “Yes.”
His skin was velvety soft, hot as a fever. The shaft was hard as iron underneath. My hand barely went all the way around him.
I gave a tentative squeeze.
Walter let out a long, ragged sound. His hand flew up and gripped my shoulder, his fingers digging in. “God ... so tight. Your hands are so small.”
I started to move.
I slid my hand up to the flared head, spreading the slick precum over the sensitive skin, then back down to the base. I found a rhythm. Up. Down. Squeeze.
The sound of his breathing filled the room. Shallow, wet gasps.
“Look at it,” he commanded. “Look what you do to me.”
I couldn’t look away. I watched my own hand moving on him. My pale fingers against his dark, engorged flesh. The visual was shocking. The taboo of it made my head spin. I was jerking off my grandfather in a nursing home, and he was calling me by my mother’s name.
It was sick. It was the hottest thing I had ever done.
I moved faster. The friction made a wet, slapping sound.
“That’s it,” he moaned. His hips started to pump, meeting my hand. He wasn’t passive. He was fucking my fist.
My own legs squeezed together. I shifted on the bed, feeling the seam of my jeans rub against me. I was soaked.
He reached down with his free hand and covered mine, adding pressure, forcing me to grip him tighter. His skin was rough against the back of my hand.
“Good girl,” he panted. “Good girl, Claire. You always knew how to handle me.”
He was getting close. I could feel his cock twitching in my grip, swelling even more. The veins stood out like cords.
“Don’t stop,” he warned. His voice dropped an octave, losing the frailty, becoming pure command. “Don’t you dare stop.”
I didn’t want to stop. I stroked him harder, using the thumb of my other hand to rub the slit at the top.
His whole body stiffened. His toes curled in his slippers. His hand on my shoulder tightened until it was painful.
“I’m coming,” he groaned. “Take it. Take it all.”
He thrust his hips forward, lifting himself out of the chair slightly.
He erupted.
Thick ropes of white shot out, coating his stomach, the waistband of his pants, and my fingers. It was warm and slimy. He kept coming, spurts of fluid hitting my wrist, making a mess.
Letting out a long, shuddering exhale, he collapsed back into the chair.
I kept my hand on him for a second longer, feeling the last pulses fade, before pulling away.
His chest heaved. His eyes were glazed over, staring at the ceiling. The sounds of the nursing home hallway seemed to rush back in, a cart rattling, a cough, a distant TV.
Walter’s breathing slowed, his chin dropping to his chest as the exhaustion took him. He looked peaceful. Innocent, almost.
I sat frozen in the silence. My hand was wet, coated in the evidence of what I’d just done. The smell of him, musk and bleach and something deeply, unmistakably male, filled my nose.
I should hate herself. I should be vomiting in the corner.
Instead, I rubbed my thumb over my index finger, spreading the slickness, feeling the texture of it. My pulse was thrumming between my legs, a steady, aching beat.
Walter murmured in a semi doze, a content sigh. “Just like old times, Claire.”
I leaned forward, my lips inches from his sleeping face.
“I’m not Claire,” I whispered into the dark.
I didn’t wipe my hand.
I told the school I had a dentist appointment. It wasn’t even a good lie, but my grades were high enough that the attendance office didn’t ask questions. I used the ride-share app on my phone and ignored the driver the entire way there. I needed the silence. I needed to focus on the hum of the tires on pavement and the thrumming wired energy under my skin.
The last visit had replayed in my head every night since Tuesday. I would lie in bed, staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars on my ceiling that I was too lazy to scrape off, and I would touch myself. I thought about the way his hand had covered mine. I visualized the thick, white ropes of cum coating my knuckles. It was disgusting. It was wrong. It was the only thing that made me cum.
I pulled into the nursing home lot at eight forty-five in the morning. The sun was bright, blindingly cheerful, glaring off the rows of parked cars. It felt exposing. The last time, it had been later, the shadows long and forgiving. Now, everything was sharp and high-definition.
I checked my reflection in my phone. I had put on extra eyeliner, smudging it just enough to look slept-in. My lips were painted a dark berry color. I rubbed them together. They felt dry. I licked them.
I got out of the car. The air smelled like fresh-cut grass and exhaust fumes. I walked through the automatic sliding doors, the blast of air conditioning hitting me instantly. The receptionist, Mrs. Gable, was on the phone. She waved me through without looking up. She knew me by now. I was the good granddaughter. The devoted one.
The hallway to the east wing was quiet. Breakfast carts were being wheeled away. The smell of oatmeal and weak coffee lingered in the air, mixing with the permanent undertone of lemon disinfectant and old age. My boots squeaked on the linoleum. I walked with a purpose. I wasn’t here to hold a hand and talk about the weather. I was here to take something.
I stopped outside Room 304 and listened. I heard the steady, rhythmic wheeze of his breathing. He was asleep.
I slipped inside and closed the door. I pressed the lock button on the handle. It made a small, metallic click.
The blinds were drawn, slicing the morning sun into thin, dusty strips across the carpet. The room was dim and warm. It smelled like him. That musk, that deep, biological scent of a man who didn’t shower every single day, mixed with the sharpness of rubbing alcohol. It made my mouth water.
I walked to the side of the bed.
Walter lay on his back. His mouth was slightly open. His chest rose and fell under the thin thermal blanket. He looked old. His skin was pale and papery, spotting at the temples. His hair was a chaotic white halo against the pillow. But I knew what was under the blanket. I knew the strength that was hiding in those bony arms. I knew the heat he was capable of generating.
I didn’t sit in the plastic visitor’s chair. I sat on the edge of the mattress.
The springs creaked. He didn’t stir.
I sat there for a minute, just watching him. I felt powerful. He was completely unaware, completely vulnerable. I could leave right now. I could stand up, unlock the door, and go to school. I could be normal.
I looked at his hands resting on his chest. They were large hands. Strong fingers. I remembered how they felt tangled in my hair when I was a kid, affectionately ruffling my bangs. Now I imagined them gripping something else.
I leaned forward.
I brought my face close to his, invading his space. His breath was warm against my cheek. I turned my head and pressed my lips to his jawline. His stubble was rough. It scraped against my sensitive skin, a friction burn waiting to happen. I kissed the hollow of his cheek. Then I moved to his ear.
“Grandpa,” I whispered. It was a test.
He grunted. His head rolled on the pillow.
I trailed my nose down his neck, inhaling deep. He smelled like sleep and sweat. I moved back up and kissed the corner of his mouth.
His eyes fluttered open.
They were milky and unfocused for a second, darting around the dim room. Then they landed on me. The confusion cleared instantly, replaced by a soft, affectionate warmth. He smiled.
“Claire,” he rasped. His voice was thick with sleep. “You came early.”
I didn’t correct him. I wanted him to believe it. I wanted to be the ghost of the woman he desired. It made it safer for him, and it made it more twisted for me.
I put a finger to his lips. “Shh. Don’t talk.”
He nodded, his eyes locked on mine. He looked trusting. He looked hungry.
I sat up straight. I reached for the sheet covering his lower half. I peeled it back slowly, revealing his legs. He was wearing loose grey sweatpants today. The cotton was worn thin.
I looked at the space between his legs.
He was already semi-hard. A distinct ridge tented the grey fabric, listing slightly to the left. Morning wood. It was an involuntary reaction, biology working even when the mind was fraying.
He watched me. His breath hitched as I reached out.
My hand hovered over his crotch. I could feel the heat radiating off him. I placed my palm over the bulge.
Walter hissed through his teeth. His hips gave a small, jerky buck, pushing up into my hand.
“You’re awake,” I murmured.
I circled my palm over the head, feeling the shape of it through the cotton. It twitched. It grew harder under my touch, swelling rapidly.
“Please,” he whispered. “Claire ... please.”
I hooked my thumbs into the waistband of his sweatpants. I didn’t hesitate. I shoved them down to his knees.
His cock sprang free.
I stared at it. It was heavy and thick, resting against his thigh. A tuft of grey hair surrounded the base. It looked imposing. This was a man’s cock. It had history.
I leaned down, bringing my face right in front of it. The smell was stronger here. Musky. Pungent.
I glanced up at his face. His head was thrown back against the pillow, eyes squeezed shut, mouth open in a silent moan. He was waiting.
I stuck out my tongue.
I didn’t touch him yet. I just let my breath ghost over the sensitive purple head. I saw a clear drop of fluid pearl at the slit. Precum.
I leaned in and licked it off.
It tasted salty. Bitter. Metallic.
Walter groaned, his hands gripping the sheets. “God.”
I traced the rim of the head with the tip of my tongue. The skin was velvety soft, contrasting with the rock-hard pressure beneath it. He was so hot. My tongue lapped at him.
“Is that good?” I whispered, my lips brushing against the shaft.
“Yes,” he choked out. “Yes, in your mouth. Put it in your mouth.”
I had never sucked a cock before.
I opened wide. I had to stretch my jaw. I lowered my head and took the tip into my mouth.
It was big. It filled me up instantly. The taste of him flooded my senses. I bobbed my head down, taking another inch. My tongue flattened against the floor of my mouth to make room. He bumped against the back of my throat, and my gag reflex triggered. I pulled back slightly, breathing through my nose.
This wasn’t safe. It wasn’t clean. It was filthy.
I went back down. This time I relaxed my throat. I slid down until my nose was buried in his pubic hair. The coarse curls tickled me. I hummed against him, the vibration travelling through his cock.
Walter’s hands left the sheets. He reached down and tangled his fingers in my hair. He didn’t pet me. He gripped. He pulled my head down harder.
“Fuck, Claire,” he grunted. “You’ve missed this, haven’t you?”
I moaned around him. It was a muffled, wet sound. I swirled my tongue around the underside of the shaft.
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.