Sarah’s Birthday

Sarah spends a very special day with her dad...

The steam curled lazily out of the bathroom doorway, carrying the sharp citrus scent of Charles' shower gel through the hallway. He stood under the spray, water sluicing down the hard planes of his torso, one hand braced against the tile as the heat worked into his muscles. The door was open—always open—because why wouldn’t it be? Sarah had seen him like this a thousand times, ever since she was old enough to toddle down the hall on unsteady legs. It was normal. Natural.

Except now, when she paused outside the threshold, her towel slung casually over her shoulder, she noticed things. The way his muscular bum flexed when he moved, the taut line of his toned stomach as the foam slid downward towards his... She swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry, and Emma’s voice echoed in her head: *"Your dad’s a total silver fox, Sazzle.* The words had made her face burn- he was her dad, but the sight of his junk also sent a strange, squirmy heat pooling low in her belly.

He turned and noticed her, "happy birthday, princess!" His deep voice bouncing off the shower tiles. He smiled at her—that easy, warm smile that always made her feel safe. "I'll be out in a minute, okay?"

Sarah hesitated, clutching her towel tighter. "Uh, yeah. Sure." She sat on the toilet lid while he finished rinsing off, her bare toes curling against the cold tiles. The squirmy feeling didn’t go away—if anything, it got worse when he stepped out, dripping wet, and reached for his towel without a shred of self-consciousness.

His cock swung heavy between his thighs, still slightly chubby from the hot water. They'd always been like this—open, unashamed— being nude around each other was as natural as breathing. He vigorously toweled his hair, ruffling it into damp spikes, before wrapping the towel loosely around his waist. "There you go," he said, nodding at the shower. "All yours."

Sarah didn’t move immediately, her gaze lingering on the swell of his muscles as he walked out. Alone now, she exhaled shakily stepping into the still-steamy space he’d left warm. The mirror was fogged, but she wiped a hand across it and stared.

Her reflection blinked back—slim, petite, almost *childish*. She turned sideways, lifting one arm to inspect the faint curve of her barely-there boobs.

"Ugh," Sarah muttered, pressing her fingertips against her pink nipples, which seemed *way* more noticeable than the rest of her. She frowned at her narrow hips, flat stomach, the soft blonde fuzz below it. Emma had boobs now. Jess had hips. Meanwhile, she could still fit into last year's swimsuit without *anything* changing. She twisted to look at her bum—cute, at least that looked *something* like a woman's, round and pert.

The showerhead dripped behind her. She stepped under the spray, letting the hot water roll down her back, trying not to think about the way Dad's bum had flexed when he'd turned—or how his cock had *swung*—God, why was she even *thinking* about that? She squeezed her eyes shut and grabbed the loofah, scrubbing too hard at her arms.

Her eyes fell on her dad's razor, hung on the shower caddy. The one he used for his chest—and elsewhere. A thought slithered into her mind, sticky and insistent. Before she could second-guess herself, she plucked it from its hook.

The razor felt heavy in her small hand. Sarah hesitated, then lathered up the tiny patch of blonde fluff with her dad's shaving gel—the same masculine scent that clung to his skin. She exhaled sharply as she dragged the blade down in one quick, decisive motion. The first swipe left a stripe of bare, pink skin beneath. It tingled.

She bit her lip, watching the curls swirl down the drain. Another stroke. Another. Until there was nothing left but smoothness. Sarah ran her fingertips over the newly exposed skin, her stomach fluttering. Her fingers slid lower, pressing against herself—she'd discovered *that* feeling months ago, but normally saved it for the dark of her bedroom. Now, with the razor still clutched in her other hand, she let her middle finger circle the slick, bare spot. Faster. Her breath hitched. The heat coiled tighter— as her fingers worked. The door to the bathroom was wide open—like always—but the thought suddenly struck her that her dad could walk in at any second. She leaned out, dripping wet, and clicked the lock shut with a decisive *snick*. Then she went right back to it, pressing two fingers inside herself, gasping at the stretch, hips bucking against her own hand.

Images of her dad's junk kept flashing behind her eyelids—thick, swinging—and Sarah's fingers moved faster, the water pounding her shoulders as she fucked herself deeper. She bit her lip to stifle a whimper when her thumb found her clit, rubbing tight circles while her other fingers curled *just so* inside. Her thighs trembled, toes curling against the shower floor as the pressure built—hot and insistent—until suddenly her back arched, as she came, slick and shuddering, her knees nearly giving out.

*What the fuck was wrong with her.* She just came thinking about her dad—no. No, she *hadn’t* been thinking about *that*. Not deliberately anyway. The water was cooling now, rinsing away the evidence of her sin down the drain, but the sticky warmth between her thighs lingered. Sarah rinsed herself off quickly, heart hammering, and stepped out, catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror—cheeks flushed. She admired her handy work with the razor- it may of made her feel grown-up, but it made her look even younger than before. No boobs, no hips and now no bush.

She wrapped herself in her towel and hesitated before unlocking the door. The hallway was empty—thank God—but the distant clatter of pans from the kitchen meant Dad was already making breakfast. She darted to her room, shut the door behind her, and leaned against it, exhaling sharply.

Sarah opened her dresser with slightly trembling hands. The airy blue sundress—a birthday gift from grandad last week—lay folded atop her clothes. She tugged it on and looked in the mirror, twisting left and right. The fabric barely reached mid-thigh, and when she twirled experimentally, the hem didn't flare out enough to give a flash of anything but it was pretty close. A naughty thought slithered into her mind—she could go commando. No one would *know*. The thought made her breath hitch. She bit her lip, glancing at her panties, then shrugged and left them crumpled on her bed. She swallowed, adjusting the spaghetti straps. No bra, obviously— no point—but that wasn’t unusual, but her nipples pressed visibly against the thin cotton. She hesitated, then grabbed a tube of strawberry lip gloss from her vanity and swiped it over her lips, puckering at her reflection.

Charles whistled low when she stepped into the kitchen. "Damn, kiddo. You look—" He paused, eyes flickering down her body for a fraction too long, his smile tightening slightly. "—grown up." He cleared his throat and turned back to the stove. Sarah didn’t miss the way his shoulders tensed under his thin white button-up, sleeves rolled to his elbows. His forearms flexed as he flipped the bacon. Her stomach flipped too.

She perched on a stool, swinging her bare legs, hyper-aware of the cool air against her newly smooth skin. "Where’re we going?" she asked, watching grease pop in the pan.

"First I thought we could go shopping in Leeds, then lunch at The Ivy," Charles said, casually flipping a pancake with one wrist flick. "Thought you might want something fancier than Nando’s for once."

As they left at JD Sports Sarah skipped ahead, her sundress fluttering around her thighs, bare feet tucked into fresh white trainers. Charles followed at a slower pace, hands stuffed in his jeans pockets, watching the way the fabric clung to her pert little bum when she paused at a display, silently berating himself for being such a fucking perve.

Sarah was pretty sure she'd given the teenage shop assistant an eye full when he'd fitted her new trainers. He was all chatty one moment- then bright red and tongue tied the next. She'd smirked inwardly, that squirmy feeling was back—but stronger now, hotter.

The Ivy was all white tablecloths and soft chatter, the kind of place where the waiters called her "madam" and folded napkins into swans. Lunch was amazing and dad let her have a glass of wine—"just the one, princess"—which made her cheeks flush even pinker than they already were. She felt like she could do anything—could *get* away with anything.

On their way home they stopped off to walk by the river. It was one of the few things Sarah could remember doing with her mum, back when she was alive. She'd been so small then—three, maybe four—but the memory was sharp as glass: Mum's wild auburn hair catching the sunlight, her sundress billowing in the breeze as she held Sarah's tiny hand, skipping stones across the water while Dad watched from the blanket.

Now, Sarah wobbled slightly on the uneven path, the glass of wine buzzing pleasantly in her veins. She was buzzing in other ways, too—that strange, electric hum under her skin. She kicked a pebble, watched it bounce into the grass, and then—for no reason at all—she flung her arms wide and executed a sloppy, giggling cartwheel. Completely forgetting about her lack of knickers.

"Sarah!" Charles' voice cracked through the air like a whip as her dress flipped upside down during the cartwheel, exposing everything—the smooth, hairless skin she'd shaved that morning, the pink flush between her thighs, all of it on display for half a second before she landed in a heap of giggles and fabric.

She rolled onto her back, grass tickling her bare legs, and grinned up at him. "Whoops," she said, not even bothering to tug the hem down. The wine made everything feel loose, warm. Dad's face was doing something complicated—what did that expression mean —and for a wild, reckless moment, she wondered what would happen if she just... stayed like that. Let him look... So, she did. She stretched her arms above her head, arching her back slightly, watching his Adam's apple bob as his gaze flickered downward.

"Did you shave your fanny?" The question slipped out before Charles could stop it, his voice maybe slightly higher than usual.

Sarah grinned at him and actually pulled her hem up higher, exposing her smooth mound completely—her fingers lazily tracing the bare skin as if daring him to react. "Yeah," she admitted, her voice dripping with playful defiance. "Thought I’d try it. Do you like it?"

Charles swallowed hard, his pulse hammering in his throat. The riverbank was secluded, but not *that* secluded—a jogger could round the bend any second. His fingers twitched at his sides, torn between grabbing her wrist to yank her dress down and—something else. Something unspeakable.

Sarah’s tipsy grin widened, her fingers idly stroking her bare skin. “You didn’t answer,” she sing-songed, kicking one leg up playfully. The hem of her dress slid up, further revealing the delicate pink folds beneath. “Do you like it?”

Charles’ breath hitched. The air between them crackled, thick with something unspoken, something dangerous. As relaxed as they were about nudity, this—*this* was different. His daughter sprawled on the grass like a sun-drunk nymph, fingers teasing the hem of her dress higher, her freshly shaved teenage pussy glistening under the dappled sunlight. His cock twitched violently in his trousers, and he glanced around frantically, scanning the tree line for joggers, dog walkers, *anyone*. The path was empty—for now.

“Sarah,” he growled, voice rough. He lunged forward, fingers wrapping around her wrist—not roughly, but firmly—and tugged her upright in one swift motion. Her bare legs tangled with his as she stumbled against his chest, the scent of strawberries and wine warm on her breath. His grip tightened involuntarily, his other hand instinctively gripping her waist to steady her. The thin cotton of her sundress pressed against his palm, the heat of her skin searing through the fabric.

Her gasp was sharp—part surprise, part something else—as her hip brushed against the unmistakable hardness straining against his jeans. Charles froze, pulse roaring in his ears. Sarah didn’t pull away. Instead, she looked at him in astonishment. "Daddy!"

The word—innocent, familiar—sent a bolt of white-hot shame through him, but his traitorous body responded anyway, his cock jerking against the denim as Sarah pressed closer, her fingers gripping his forearm. She could feel it—*all* of it—the thick outline, the heat, the way his breath stuttered when she brushed against him again. She blinked up at him, lips parted, and for one suspended second, Charles thought she might pull away—scream, run, slap him—but then her fingers tightened on his wrist.

Her mouth touched his—soft, unsure, the faint taste of strawberry gloss mingling with the wine on her tongue. It wasn't practiced, wasn't sleek like a woman's kiss; it was clumsy, a child's tentative press of lips, but with an undercurrent of something else—something hot and curious that made his stomach drop. Her free hand fisted in his shirt, tugging him down to her level, and suddenly the kiss deepened, her tongue darting out to trace his bottom lip with a hunger that shouldn’t exist between them. Charles groaned, his hands spasming at her waist, torn between shoving her away and crushing her against him.

He was lost. Years of suppression bursting like a dam—every stolen glance in the shower, every choked-back groan when she'd crawl into his lap after nightmares, every fucking night he'd spent imagining her small, pleading voice saying *Daddy* while his hand worked his cock—it all surged forward now, raw and undeniable. His fingers slid into the damp curls at her nape, gripping hard enough to make her gasp, and he licked into her mouth with a growl that vibrated through both of them. Sarah whimpered, her hips jerking forward, her bare cunt rubbing against the rough denim of his jeans through the thin cotton of her dress.

Suddenly, Charles wrenched his mouth from hers, panting. He scanned the riverbank—still empty—then hooked an arm under her knees and hauled her up against his chest. Sarah squeaked, her arms looping around his neck instinctively as he strode off the path into the dense thicket of trees, her sundress rucking up around her waist again. Twigs snapped underfoot, leaves whipping at their legs until he found a secluded hollow where the sunlight filtered through the canopy in dappled gold. He dropped to his knees, cradling her in his lap, her bare thighs splayed across his.

"Daddy," Sarah breathed, trembling—not from fear, but from the feverish glint in his eyes, the way his fingers dug into her hips. Her eyes were wild, pupils blown wide. He kissed her again, his hands sliding up her thighs, pushing her dress higher, exposing everything. She arched into his touch, her small hands clutching his shoulders.

His fingers—rough from years of carpentry, strong and thick—felt impossibly gentle as they traced the slick seam of her pussy, spreading her folds with a reverence that made her whimper. She was already drenched, her excitement dripping down her thighs, her scent mingling with the crushed grass beneath them. Charles groaned, his breath hot against her neck as he rubbed slow, teasing circles around her clit, making her hips jerk.

Sarah gasped, her fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. "Daddy, *please*," she begged, her voice high and desperate, so unlike the teasing brat from moments before.

Charles had no words—only hunger. His mouth crashed down onto hers again, swallowing her needy whimpers as he guided her small hips up, positioning her over the thick bulge in his jeans. When she ground down instinctively, he groaned, gripping her waist tighter. His fingers slid lower, dipping inside her with ease—she was *soaked*, her tight little cunt fluttering around his fingers as he fucked them in and out, watching her face twist in pleasure.

"Fuck," he rasped, dragging his tongue along the delicate shell of her ear before biting down just hard enough to make her gasp. "You’re so wet, princess." His voice was rough, wrecked—nothing like the fatherly tone she knew. This was something else entirely.

With one swift motion, Charles stood, hauling her up with him. Sarah instinctively wrapped her legs around his waist, her sundress bunched around her hips, her freshly shaved teenage pussy pressed flush against the straining denim of his jeans. He carried her to the nearest oak, its bark rough against her bare back as he pinned her there. Then—slowly, deliberately—he sank to his knees in the grass, her thighs draping over his shoulders like she was weightless.

Sarah gasped, her fingers scrabbling against the tree trunk as his mouth descended. His tongue—broad, hot—lapped up her slit in one long, filthy stroke, savoring the taste of her excitement, her *youth*. She whimpered, her hips jerking forward, but his hands clamped down on her thighs, spreading her wider, holding her open for his greedy mouth. The contrast was obscene: her delicate, hairless folds spread wetly around his stubbled jaw, his thick fingers pressing bruises into the soft skin of her inner thighs as he devoured her like a starving man.
Sarah was on fire—every nerve alight—as her dad’s tongue flicked over her clit with practiced precision, circling, teasing, before sucking the sensitive bud between his lips. She cried out, her back arching off the tree, her hands fisting in his hair. "Ohmygod—*Daddy*—!"
The vibrations of his answering groan sent shocks through her core, her thighs trembling around his ears. He a two finger inside her, curling it just right, pressing against that spongy spot that made stars burst behind her eyelids. His mouth never stopped working, his tongue relentless, lapping at her slickness, drinking her down like she was something sacred. His beard scraped against her sensitive skin, the sting only heightening the pleasure coiling tighter and tighter in her belly.
Sarah’s breathing turned ragged, her moans pitching higher, her hips grinding against his face—she was close, *so* close. Her orgasm was beyond anything she'd ever given herself—hotter, deeper, terrifying in its intensity—and when it crashed over her, she screamed, her vision whiting out as her pussy clenched around his finger.
Charles didn't let up. He fucked her through it, his tongue relentless, finger pumping in and out of her fluttering cunt as she thrashed against the tree, her tiny body convulsing with aftershocks. Only when she went boneless, her legs slipping from his shoulders, did he finally pull back, his lips glistening with her juices, his eyes dark with barely restrained hunger.
Sarah panted, her chest rising and falling rapidly, her sundress bunched around her waist, her exposed skin flushed pink. She blinked down at him, dazed, her lips swollen from biting them. Charles stood slowly, his jeans straining obscenely, the wet spot where her pussy had ground against him unmistakable. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his gaze never leaving hers.
And then—without warning—he grabbed her wrist and yanked her forward, spinning her around to face the tree. Sarah yelped as he pressed her chest against the rough bark, his hand sliding down her back to grip her hip. The other hand fumbled with his belt, the metallic *clink* of the buckle loud in the quiet clearing. Sarah’s breath hitched as she felt the cool air against her bare skin, the heat of his body pressing into her from behind.
His cock—thick, veined, *massive* compared to her small frame—pressed against her slick entrance. "Tell me to stop," he whispered into her ear, his teeth grazing the delicate shell. His hips rocked forward slightly, the head of his cock catching against her folds, smearing her own wetness. "Say the word princess, and I stop. Right now."
Sarah swallowed, her pulse hammering in her throat. She could feel him—*all* of him—pulsing against her, the heat radiating off his skin. Her thighs trembled, her pussy clenching around nothing, still throbbing from his mouth. She knew she should say it. Knew she *should*. But the word that slipped from her lips was breathless, needy: "*Please.*"
Charles groaned, his forehead dropping between her shoulder blades. His hands gripped her hips tighter, his cock nudging forward, stretching her inch by excruciating inch. Sarah whimpered, her fingers clawing at the bark as he filled her, her body yielding to him with a slick, hot slide. The head popped past her tight entrance, and she gasped, her walls fluttered, she felt like she was being split open—*ohgodohgodohgod*—but she didn’t wanted it to stop. She bit her lip, her toes curling in the grass as he sank deeper. His hips rolled forward, slowly sinking ever deeper, her body stretching to accommodate him, her adolescent cunt gripping him like a vise. He groaned, his fingers digging into her hips.

He bit her kneck, pulled back and plunged in again—short, slow strokes, each one measured and deliberate, letting her feel every ridge, every vein as he dragged himself almost all the way out before pushing back in with a groan. Sarah whimpered, her fingers scrabbling against the bark, her legs shaking. The stretch was *too much*, the fullness overwhelming, but she couldn’t stop the way her body arched back into him, her hips rocking instinctively to meet his thrusts. The pain was fading, replaced by something hotter, wetter—pleasure coiling tight in her belly with every slow, grinding push.

The wiry tangle of his pubes scratched against the smooth, plump curve of her pert little bum as he finally bottomed out inside her, hilting himself with a guttural groan that sent vibrations down her spine. Sarah gasped, her tiny hands flattening against the oak’s bark—she could *feel* him *everywhere*, the throbbing heat of his cock carving space inside her that hadn’t existed before. When he pulled back, the drag was exquisite torture, her inner muscles fluttering desperately around him as if begging for more.

Charles didn’t tease now. His hips snapped forward, burying himself to the hilt again, and this time Sarah *screamed*, her head tipping back, saliva dripping from her parted lips onto the tree trunk. She was beyond coherence, beyond shame—just a writhing, mewling mess as his calloused fingers found her swollen clit, rubbing tight circles that sent electric jolts through her oversensitive nerves. "Daddy—*Daddy*—!" she sobbed, her thighs quivering, her vision blurring at the edges. She was actually drooling now, her mouth slack with pleasure, her brain short-circuiting under the dual assault of his cock pistoning into her slick cunt and his fingers working her clit with ruthless precision.

Her orgasm hit like a tsunami —violently, *vulgarly*—her entire body convulsing against the tree, her back arching so sharply Charles had to grip her waist tighter to keep her upright. She wailed, her voice cracking, her pussy clenching around him in rhythmic spasms that milked his cock mercilessly. He groaned, his forehead dropping between her shoulder blades, his thrusts turning erratic as her tight little cunt squeezed him like a vise. "Fuck, *fuck*—" His hips stuttered, his fingers digging into her skin hard enough to leave bruises, and then with a superhuman effort he pulled out abruptly with a wet pop, his cock twitching angrily between them.

Sarah gasped, her thighs trembling, her chest still heaving as she turned her head to glance over her shoulder—just in time to see the first thick rope of cum splatter against her bare bum, hot and sticky. Charles growled, his fist pumping his length roughly, his release arching through the air in messy, pearly streaks that painted her pert cheeks and the rumpled fabric of her sundress bunched around her waist. The contrast was obscene: her smooth, hairless skin glistening with his spend, the white rivulets dripping down the curve of her ass to smear between her thighs.

Then—*silence*.

The riverbank's quiet was suddenly oppressive. The birdsong, the rustling leaves, the distant ripple of water—all of it rushed back in like a tide, filling the vacuum left by their frantic gasps. Charles' hands trembled where they still gripped Sarah's hips, his forehead pressed against her spine. The sweat cooling on his skin made him shiver.

Sarah's chest rose and fell in shallow, rapid breaths against the tree bark, her fingers unclenching from their desperate grip. She turned her head slightly, catching the sight of his spend streaked across her skin—white against pink, obscene and undeniable. Her throat clicked as she swallowed, but she didn’t speak. Neither did he. The air between them crackled with something heavier than lust now.

"Princess, I'm so sorry," Charles rasped, his hands trembling against her waist. Sarah turned—slowly, achingly—to face him, her sundress still rucked up around her hips, his cum cooling on her thighs. His eyes were wild, pupils blown black with lingering arousal, but his mouth was already twisting into something ugly—shame.

Sarah giggled.

The sound was too loud, too bright—a bubble of drunken euphoria that burst against the heavy silence between them. She swayed slightly, her bare feet shuffling in the grass, her sundress slipping back down her thighs with a damp whisper. The wine hummed in her veins, warm and syrupy, smoothing the sharp edges of what had just happened.

She kissed him.

Not with hesitation this time—not with the clumsy curiosity of a child testing forbidden waters—but with the ferocity of someone who’d just had her world rearranged. Her fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him down to her level as her tongue plunged into his mouth, tasting herself on his lips—salty, musky, *hers*.
"There's nothing to be sorry for daddy," she murmured against his lips, her voice hoarse from screaming.