Continuing the baby-making with my dad

My fantasy - and hopefully soon the reality - of Incest Baby #3 with my daddy

Quick recap: my brother and I started having sex during the pandemic, when he was 15 and I was 16. When he was 19 and I was 20, he got me pregnant, on purpose.
I gave birth to our daughter Lily in April of 2025. We moved out of state in early June 2025 and by the end of the month, I was pregnant again and gave birth to our son Max in March of 2026. Now, we’re making a plan for me to get a way for our dad to notice me, lust for me, and somehow seduce him. We want another baby, and we want Incest Baby #3 to be fathered by our own dad. Our two children, Lily and Max, were the living, breathing proof of our love. They had my brother’s eyes, my smile. They were ours. Max was born in March of 2026, and by that summer, the thrill, the ultimate taboo, was feeling stronger than ever. We wanted a third child, and my brother knew that I wanted that child to be fathered by our own dad. And surprisingly, he was completely on board with that. The goal was set: I would aim to be pregnant by the end of July 2026. This is a fantasy of how it’s probably gonna go.

The plan wasn't for a single night. It was more of a slow siege on my dad’s defenses. We didn't move back home. Instead, we decided on a routine of visiting our parents' house twice a month, on the weekends.

I laid out the phases for my brother. Phase One I called the “re-establishment.” This was about being present, about reminding Dad of the woman his little girl had become without making it too sexual. It started with casual visits. I'd take the kids over in the afternoon, letting them run riot in his backyard while he and I sat on the porch with iced tea.

"Look at them, Dad," I'd say, my voice light as I watched Max chase a butterfly. "They're getting so big."

He'd smile, a genuine, warm smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. He was honestly a handsome man, in his mid fifties, with a thick head of black hair and the same strong hands I remembered from my childhood. He worked construction, and his body still bore the evidence of it. Broad shoulders, strong arms. He looked at me with a father's adoration, but in those first few weekends, that's all it was.

Phase Two began during our visit in May. The “looking.” I started to dress differently for these trips. Gone were the jeans and t-shirts. In their place were tight sleeveless tops that clung to my curves when the breeze picked up, sometimes low-cut tops that showed of almost half of my tits, and shorts that were short enough to be scandalous on a mother of two, but just playful enough on a "young woman finding her style."

I remember one specific Saturday, June 6th. It was hot and humid. I wore a simple, pale yellow tank top and a pair of denim cutoffs. I'd gone over to help him weed his garden. I could feel his eyes on me as I was on my hands and knees, my back arched just so, the sun glistening on the sheen of sweat on my neck. I saw him lean on his rake, his gaze fixed on me. It wasn't a quick glance. It was a long, lingering look. He took a sip from his water bottle, but his eyes never left me. He was seeing me, truly seeing me, not as his daughter, but as a woman. I could feel a new sort of tension, a new and potent energy in the air.

The dialogues started to shift, too. They became more personal, more charged.

"Dad, you remember when you taught me to drive in this old pickup?" I asked one evening during our visit on June 20th, running my hand along the hood of his battered Ford F-150. He was cleaning out the bed, and I stood close, my hip brushing against his.

"Of course I do," he chuckled. "You almost took out the mailbox."

"I was just trying to impress you," I said, my voice dropping to a near whisper. I looked up at him from under my lashes. "Do I still impress you?"

He froze, a pile of old ropes in his hands. He cleared his throat, his gaze darting away for a second before meeting mine again. "Astrid... of course you do. You're a wonderful mother. You've built a beautiful life."

"That's not what I mean," I pressed, stepping even closer. The space between us was charged, electric. "Do you… see… me?"

The conflict was plain on his face. The father, the protector, was warring with the man. He could feel the pull, the undeniable magnetism of his beautiful, confident daughter. He swallowed hard. "You should... you should probably get going. You’ve got a long drive."

In actuality, the drive was barely 2 hours. He was resisting. He was fighting it, because I was still his little girl. The girl he'd taught to ride a bike, the girl whose skinned knees he'd patched up. How could he even think of me like that? But the seed was planted (pun intended).

Phase Three, which began during our visit in early July, was about breaking down the physical barriers. The casual touches became more frequent, more intentional. A hand on his forearm that lingered a second too long. Leaning my head on his shoulder while we watched a movie on the couch, the scent of my hair filling his nostrils.

The first time he truly faltered was the weekend of July 5th. Mom had gone to bed early, and the three of us were in the living room. I was telling a story about something funny Max had done, and as I laughed, I put my hand on dad’s thigh. It was a high, intimate placement, my fingers resting just below the hem of his shorts. He went rigid, his entire body tensing up. He didn't pull away, but he didn't encourage it either. He just sat there like a statue, his eyes fixed on the TV, though I knew he wasn't actually seeing it.

"Astrid," he said, his voice a low, strained rumble. "Don't."

"Why not?" I asked softly, my thumb making a slow, deliberate circle on his jeans. "It's just a touch, Daddy."

The word "Daddy" did something to him. It was a weapon I wielded with expert precision. It was both an invocation of his paternal role and a complete corruption of it. He let out a shaky breath, a sound of pure defeat. "Because... it's not right."

"Who says what's right?" I murmured, leaning in closer, my lips now just inches from his ear. "Does this feel wrong?"

He didn't answer. He just sat there, trapped in the web I was weaving. After a long moment, he finally said, "You should go to bed. The kids will be up early." It was a dismissal, but it was weak. The final push came on the weekend of July 19th. I told my brother my plan beforehand. I was going to create a moment where it was just the two of us, a moment where he couldn't escape. I waited until Mom took Lily and Max out for ice cream, leaving the house empty and silent.

I found him in the garage, tinkering with his lawnmower. I was wearing a simple, black silk robe, tied loosely at the waist, with nothing underneath. I walked in, the scent of my perfume preceding me.

"Dad?" I said.

He looked up, and his eyes widened when he saw me. “We have the house to ourselves for a little while” I said seductively. I walked toward him, my movements fluid and graceful. "I wanted to talk to you."

"About what?" he asked. He was backing away, but there was nowhere for him to go. He was cornered against the workbench.

"About us," I said, stopping directly in front of him. "About this." I reached up and untied the belt of my robe, letting it fall open to reveal my naked body. I watched his face, saw the war raging there. The shock, the lust, the guilt, and more than anything, the overwhelming desire. "Astrid, no. My God... you're my daughter. I can't... I can't do this."

“Dad, look at me.” Slowly, reluctantly, he opened his eyes. They were filled with a torment so deep it almost made me feel sorry for him. Almost.

"I'm not a little girl anymore," I said, my hands coming up to rest on his chest. I could feel his heart hammering. "I'm a woman. And I want you. I’ve wanted you since I was pregnant with Max."
His hands, which had been clenched into fists at his sides, slowly uncurled. He wasn't pushing me away.

I leaned in and pressed my lips to his. It wasn't a chaste, daughterly kiss. It was deep, passionate, and full of all the unspoken tension that had been building for months. For a moment, he was completely still, and then, with a groan of surrender, he was kissing me back. His hands came up to grip my waist, pulling me flush against him. The battle was over. He had lost.

He led me from the garage, up the stairs, and into the master bedroom – the room he shared with our mother. The transgression was now complete. He laid me down on the bed, his movements a mixture of desperate hunger and profound hesitation. He looked down at me, his eyes dark with a storm of emotions. "This is so wrong, Astrid. So very wrong. And yet…"
"Then why does it feel so right, Daddy?" I whispered, the name a final, deliberate twist of the knife.

He didn't answer. He couldn't. Instead, he crushed his mouth to mine. His hands roamed my body, feeling the curve of my hips, the hardness of my nipples, the softness of my skin. The silk of my robe was a flimsy barrier, and he quickly pushed it off, his rough hands a stark contrast to the softness of my skin. Our first coupling was frantic, almost violent in its intensity. It was the culmination of a long, slow siege, and the city walls had fallen. There was only a primal need to bridge the final, unforgivable gap. He took me with a guttural groan, his body claiming mine in a way that was both possessive and, in a strange way, adoring. I met his ferocity with my own, my legs wrapping around him, pulling him deeper, my nails clawing at his back. When he finally shuddered his release, it was with a grunt that that was all pleasure with no despair or guilt. He collapsed onto me, his face buried in the crook of my neck, his body trembling.

After a moment, he rolled off me, staring at the ceiling with wide eyes. "What have I done?" he whispered to the empty room. I couldn’t quite place his tone. Was it actually guilt, which I didn’t hear when he came? Surprise? I wasn’t sure. "You did what we both wanted," I said, my voice calm and steady as I propped myself up on an elbow. "And it's not over. We have the rest of the weekend."
And we did. Over the rest of that Saturday and into Sunday, we explored the new, terrifying landscape of our relationship. The frantic urgency gave way to a slower, more intimate exploration. But I wasn't pregnant after that first weekend. The test was negative. I was frustrated, but the clock was ticking. Our goal was the end of July.

Our second encounter was the very next weekend, July 26th. There was no time for slow seduction. The moment my mom took the kids out to run errands, he was on me. He pulled me into the laundry room, the door clicking shut behind us. This time, there was no protest, only a raw, mutual need. He lifted me onto the washing machine, the cold metal a shock against my heated skin as he entered me again. The machine rumbled and shook beneath us, a frantic, mechanical rhythm to match our own. He was rougher this time, more confident. He knew my body now, knew what made me gasp and what made me scream. He fucked me with desperate powerful thrusts. When he came, he bit down on my shoulder, hard enough to leave a mark, a brand of his possession. But I still did not get pregnant. Damn it!

The third time was just two days later, on Monday night. He called me, his voice low, saying "I need to see you. Now." I drove to his work site after hours, finding him alone in the small, dusty office. He was waiting for me, his eyes wide. He didn't even bother with the bed or a couch. He bent me over the desk, scattering papers and blueprints to the floor. He yanked my jeans down to my ankles and took me from behind, right there among the scent of sawdust and coffee. It was utterly perfect. "Is this what you want?" he grunted, his hand fisted in my hair. "You want your daddy to fuck you?" "Yes," I cried, pushing back against his brutal thrusts. "I'm yours, Daddy." He grunted loudly as he came, filling me with his hot cum.

The fourth and last time, the final weekend of July, was the one. There was a finality to it, a sense that this was our last and best chance. This time, I was the aggressor. I walked into the living room where he was watching TV, wearing only a long t-shirt of his. I straddled his lap, my knees on either side of his thighs on the couch. "I need you, Daddy," I whispered, grinding my hips against the growing hardness in his jeans. "I need you to fill me up. I need you to put a baby in me."

My words, so raw and direct, were his undoing. He literally ripped the shirt over my head. His mouth was on my breasts, sucking and biting my nipples until they were hard, aching points. He stood up, lifting me with him, and carried me back to the master bedroom, kicking the door shut behind him. He placed me on the bed and was on me in an instant, his mouth claiming mine in a brutal kiss. He flipped me over, pulling me up onto my hands and knees. "Is this what you want, you dirty little girl?" he asked, his hand coming down on my ass. The sting was sharp, but made my pussy tingle. "You want your daddy to fuck you like this?"
"Yes," I moaned, pushing back against him. "Fuck me, Daddy. Use me. Give me your baby."

He didn't need any more encouragement. He drove into me from behind, one hand gripping my hip, the other tangled in my hair, pulling my head back. The angle was deep, intense. He slammed into me, his balls slapping against my clit with every thrust. The room was filled with the sounds of our bodies, my cries of pleasure and his grunts of exertion. He was fucking me with a singular purpose, to breed me. He reached around, his fingers finding my clit, rubbing it in tight, hard circles. "Cum for me, Astrid," he commanded, his voice thick with lust. "Cum on your daddy's cock. Take my seed." His words sent me over the edge. My orgasm tore through me, a shattering wave of pleasure that made my entire body tense up. As my pussy clenched around him, he buried himself deep inside me, his cock pulsing as he emptied himself into me. I could feel the hot, thick spurts of his cum coating my insides, and I prayed that this time, it would take.
We collapsed onto the bed, a tangled, sweaty mess. He held me from behind, his body spooning mine, his cock still inside me.

Two weeks later, on a bright, sunny morning in mid-August, I took a test. My brother stood beside me in the bathroom of our house, his hand on my shoulder. We watched the little window, our hearts pounding in unison. Slowly, two faint pink lines appeared. Positive.
A wave of pure joy and triumph washed over me. I had done it. We had done it. I turned to my brother, a wide, radiant smile on my face, and he swept me up into his arms, spinning me around. We laughed, a sound of pure, unburdened joy. “Incest Baby #3, success!” my brother shouted. “Way to go, Dad.”

The next step was telling Dad. We waited for our next visit at the end of August. I found him in the garage, just like I had that first time. I walked up to him, my heart hammering.
"Daddy," I said. He looked up, a wary expression on his face. He still had that lusty look in his eyes whenever we were alone. "Astrid. What is it?" I took a deep breath. "I'm pregnant. And it's not Aiden’s" I said, my voice soft but firm. "It's yours." He stared at me, his mouth slightly agape. The blood drained from his face. "Mine?” "Yes. I'm due in April. And it's your baby, Daddy."

For a long moment, he was utterly still, his mind clearly racing to process the magnitude of what I'd just said. Then, slowly, he looked up, and a different emotion was dawning in his eyes. A look of awe. He stood up, his movements slow, deliberate. He took a step toward me, then another, until he was standing directly in front of me. His gaze dropped to my still-flat stomach, and he slowly, placed his hand there. His palm was warm, rough, and felt incredibly right. "My baby," he whispered, the words filled not with despair, but with a profound, earth-shattering wonder. He looked back up at my face, and a slow smile spread across his lips, transforming his entire expression. It was a smile of pure, unadulterated pride. "My daughter is having my child," he said, his voice thick with emotion. He pulled me into his arms, holding me tight against his chest. It wasn't a hug of a father for a daughter, but the embrace of a man for the woman carrying his child. "Our baby," he corrected himself, his hand moving from my stomach to the small of my back, pressing me closer. We had done it. We had created our perfect circle of love and blood. Our family was complete.

Or was it? Aiden still has a fully functional baby maker, and I know he wants to fuck our cousin Ellie. Incest Baby #4 is still a possibility…