I heard my dad's girlfriend praising his dick

The first time I heard it, I thought I must have misheard. The words didn't make sense, couldn't fit into the world I knew. But they lodged in my brain like a splinter, and no amount of shaking my head could dislodge them.

It was a Tuesday. I'd come home early from school—fake headache, the usual excuse—and the house was quiet. I assumed Dad was still at work. Taylor's car was in the drive, but she was always around, draped over the furniture like she owned the place. I didn't care. I just wanted to get to my room, shut the door, and disappear.

But as I crept up the stairs, I heard her voice. She was on the phone, probably with one of her friends, and she had that lazy, smug tone she got when she was talking about something she thought was hers.

"Oh my God, Sarah, you have no idea." A pause. A low, breathy laugh. "Brett has a big dick. Like, actually big. I didn't think guys his age could..."

I froze. My hand gripped the banister so hard my knuckles went white. My dad. She was talking about my dad. And she was laughing about it, like it was some kind of trophy.

I don't remember how I got to my room. I just remember sitting on my bed, staring at the wall, my heart pounding so loud I could hardly think. Big dick. The words replayed in my head, over and over. I'd never thought about my dad that way. He was just... Dad. He made breakfast, fixed things around the house, called me kiddo. He wasn't supposed to be that.

But now I couldn't un-hear it. Every time he walked past me, I'd glance down. I'd watch the way his jeans fit, the way he moved, and I'd feel this hot, shameful curl in my stomach. I hated it. I hated her for putting that image in my head. I hated myself for not being able to scrub it out.

At dinner, I couldn't look at him. He asked how school was, and I mumbled something. Taylor reached across the table and touched his hand, and I wanted to scream. That's mine, I thought. He's my dad. Not yours.

The jealousy grew, ugly and green and insistent. I started listening at their bedroom door at night. I'd press my ear to the wood, holding my breath, and wait. The first time I heard her moan—low and throaty and satisfied—I felt a jolt straight between my legs. I imagined it was me making those sounds. I imagined it was my back arching, my hands gripping the sheets, my voice calling out for him.

I'd slip back to my room afterward, my thighs pressed together, my skin hot and prickling. I'd lie in the dark and let my hand wander, sliding under the waistband of my pajama shorts. I'd touch myself the way I'd heard her being touched—slow at first, teasing, then faster, harder, until I was biting my pillow to keep quiet.

It was wrong. I knew it was wrong. I was fifteen, and he was my dad, and Taylor was his girlfriend, and none of this should have been happening inside my head. But the thoughts kept coming. They fed on each other, grew bolder. I'd picture him above me, his big hands on my hips, his weight pressing me into the mattress. I'd imagine his voice, low and rough, telling me what to do. And I'd come undone, my fingers slick and desperate, gasping into the dark.

The next morning, I'd shower and scrub myself clean and pretend none of it happened. But then I'd see him at the kitchen table, shirtless, rubbing sleep out of his eyes, and the heat would flare back up. I'd catch Taylor smirking at him over her coffee, and I'd feel that jealous twist again.

She got to have him. She got to lie next to him every night, to feel his cock slide into her, to moan and dig her nails into his back. And I was just his kid. The kid who listened at doors, who snuck touches in the dark, who burned with a wanting that had no name.

Some nights, I couldn't stop touching myself. I'd do it once, twice, three times, until I was raw and trembling. But it was never enough. The fantasy expanded, took on its own life. I'd close my eyes and there he was, pushing into me, filling me up, his mouth on my neck, his growl in my ear.

Brett has a big dick.

Yeah. I heard her. And I'd never be the same.
The next night, Taylor wasn't there. She'd texted Dad saying she was staying at her sister's, something about a family thing. I overheard him grunt in acknowledgment, not really caring. He was used to her coming and going.

I saw my chance.

The next morning, I faked it. I curled up in bed, made my voice small and shaky, told him I had a fever. He came in, felt my forehead with the back of his hand—rough, warm, familiar—and frowned. "You're warm, kiddo. Stay in bed. I'll bring you soup later."

But I shook my head. "I can't sleep in my room. It's too cold. Can I... can I sleep in your bed? Just for a nap?"

He hesitated. I could see the flicker of doubt cross his face. But I was his little girl, and I looked pathetic enough. He sighed, ruffled my hair. "Alright. Come on."

I followed him into his room. The bed was huge, the sheets still rumpled from last night. I crawled in, burrowed into the pillows that smelled like him—sweat, soap, something deeper. He climbed in on the other side, turned his back to me, and within minutes his breathing evened out.

I lay there, heart hammering, waiting. The clock ticked. My fingers twitched. I shifted closer, inch by inch, until I could feel the heat of his body. He was on his side, facing away, the blanket bunched around his hips.

I needed to see it.

Slowly, carefully, I slid my hand under the blanket. My fingertips brushed the waistband of his boxers. He didn't stir. I pushed further, my palm grazing the soft fabric, searching for the shape of him. But he was lying on his back now, half-turned, and the angle was wrong. I couldn't find it.

I got bolder. I tugged at the edge of his boxers, trying to peek underneath. My hand fumbled, clumsy with nerves. And then—

His hand clamped down on my wrist.

I froze. My heart stopped.

"What are you doing?" His voice was rough, still thick with sleep, but there was an edge to it. He rolled over, his eyes blinking in the dim light. He wasn't angry. Not yet. Just confused.

I could have pulled away. Made an excuse. Said I was looking for a dropped hair tie. But the words came out before I could stop them.

"I heard what Taylor said. About you. About your... big dick."

His eyes widened. His grip on my wrist loosened but didn't let go. A long, heavy silence stretched between us.

"I want to see it, Dad. Please."

He stared at me. I could see the war happening behind his eyes—the part of him that knew this was wrong, and the part that was already hardening at my words. He swallowed.

"You sure, honey?"

I nodded, my mouth dry.

He let go of my wrist. Then, slowly, he pushed down the waistband of his boxers. His cock sprang free, thick and heavy, lying against his thigh. Seven inches at least, and fat—just like she'd said. The head was a deep, flushed pink, the shaft veined and solid. I stared, my breath catching.

"Wow," I whispered.

And then I watched it twitch. It started to rise, lifting off his thigh, growing longer and harder right in front of my eyes. The sight made my cunt clench, a wet heat pooling between my legs.

"Does it fit in Taylor's pussy?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

He let out a low, shaky laugh. "Yeah. It fits. Tight, but it fits."

I licked my lips. "What about mine?"

He looked at me, his expression softening. "Yours is a bit too tiny, honey. I don't think it will. Not without hurting you."

"I don't care. Daddy, please try."

He was quiet for a long moment. Then he exhaled, slow and deliberate. "Okay, honey. If you're sure."

He shifted, turned toward me. His hand came up to my hip, tugging at the waistband of my pajama shorts. I lifted my hips, let him slide them down, along with my panties. The cool air hit my bare skin, and I shivered.

He didn't go for my cunt right away. Instead, he bent his head, and I felt his mouth on me—not where I expected, but higher. His lips closed around my clit, his tongue circling, soft at first, then firmer. I gasped, my hands flying to his hair, gripping the short strands. He sucked gently, drawing me into his mouth, his tongue flicking and pressing until I was writhing, whimpering.

"Dad... please..."

He pulled back, his chin glistening. "You're wet, baby. That's good. I was sucking you to make you wet so it won't hurt., " He positioned himself between my legs, the head of his cock nudging against my entrance. I could feel the size of it, the impossible stretch just from that light pressure.

But then he stopped.

"Incest is wrong, baby," he said, his voice low and serious. "So I can't thrust. But if you squeeze your muscles around it, that's not me fucking you. That's you taking me. You understand?"

I nodded frantically. "Yes, Daddy. Please."

He pressed forward, just the tip. The stretch was sharp, a burning fullness that made me gasp. I clenched down instinctively, my walls gripping him. The sensation sent a jolt through both of us. He groaned, his jaw tight.

"There you go," he breathed. "Squeeze again."

I did. I focused on my inner muscles, clenching and releasing around the head of his cock. Each squeeze pulled him deeper, just a fraction of an inch. His hands gripped my hips, but he didn't push. He let me work.

The friction was maddening. My clit was swollen, aching, rubbing against his pubic bone with every tiny movement. I squeezed harder, faster, my breath coming in ragged gasps. The pressure built low in my belly, coiling tight.

"Dad... I'm gonna..."

"Let go, baby. Squeeze me."

I clenched one last time, hard, and the orgasm crashed through me. My back arched, a cry tearing from my throat, and I felt my pussy flutter and pulse around him. He stayed still, letting me ride it out, his cock throbbing inside me.

When I came down, I was trembling, soaked. He looked down at me, his eyes dark.

"I can put all of it in, baby. As long as I'm not thrusting, it's not sex. You just squeeze. You think you can take it?"

"Yes, Daddy. Please. All of it."

He pushed forward, slow and steady. I felt myself stretching around him, inch by inch, the fullness almost unbearable. Halfway in, I gasped, my nails digging into his shoulders. He paused.

"More," I pleaded.

He kept going. The last few inches slid in, and I was so full I could hardly breathe. His balls rested against my ass. He was buried to the hilt.

"Fuck," he whispered. "You're so tight."

I squeezed. The walls of my cunt clamped down on him, and his hips twitched involuntarily, but he caught himself. He didn't thrust. He just lay there, buried inside me, while I squeezed and released, squeezed and released.

The second orgasm built faster. My whole body was hypersensitive, every nerve on fire. I squeezed harder, faster, chasing the peak. And when it came, it was different—deeper, more intense. I felt a rush of liquid gush out of me, soaking his thighs and the sheets beneath us.

I squirted. Hot and sudden, a gush that kept coming as my muscles spasmed around him.

He watched, mesmerized, as I came undone. His cock stayed hard inside me, untouched, unmoving.

When I finally collapsed, limp and gasping, he slowly pulled out. A mix of my juices and his precum dripped onto the sheets. He lay beside me, pulling the blanket over us both.

"You okay, honey?" he asked, his voice soft.

I nodded, curling into his chest. "Yeah, Daddy. I'm okay."

And for a moment, it felt like it was.
After I caught my breath, the room was heavy with the smell of sex and sweat. He was still hard, his cock slick with my wetness, resting warm against my thigh. I felt him twitch, and a shiver ran through me.

He propped himself up on one elbow, looking down at me with a mixture of tenderness and something darker. His fingers traced my collarbone, my shoulder, leaving a trail of goosebumps.

"Baby," he said slowly, "as long as I don't cum inside, it's technically not sex. You understand? It's just... playing. Learning. Nothing wrong with that."

I nodded, my heart racing. The lie was thin, but I didn't care. I wanted him. All of him.

He shifted, positioning himself between my legs again. This time, he didn't stop at the tip. He pushed in, slow and deliberate, but with a new purpose. His hips rolled forward, sliding deeper, and I felt the stretch become a burn, then a blinding fullness. He was halfway in, and I gasped, my hands gripping his biceps.

"Tell me if it hurts," he murmured, but his eyes were hungry.

"It doesn't. Please, Daddy. Fuck me."

That word did something to him. His jaw tightened, and he drove the rest of the way in with one smooth thrust. I cried out, my body arching, my cunt clenching around him. He was so deep I felt him in my throat.

Then he started to move.

He pulled back, almost all the way out, and slammed back in. The sound of our bodies meeting was wet and obscene. He set a rhythm—slow at first, each thrust deliberate, grinding against my clit. My legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him deeper. His breath came in harsh grunts, his movements becoming faster, harder.

"Look at you," he growled, his hand sliding down to grip my ass, lifting my hips to take him deeper. "Taking your daddy's cock like a good little whore."

I moaned, the word sending a jolt of heat straight to my core. "Yes, Daddy. I'm your whore. Fuck me. I like your big dick."

He drove into me, the head of his cock hitting a spot inside that made stars burst behind my eyes. I was lost, a mess of sensation and need. My hands clawed at his back, his shoulders, anywhere I could reach. He was relentless, pounding into me, the bed creaking beneath us.

"Tell me you're mine," he demanded, his voice ragged.

"I'm yours, Daddy. All yours."

"I want to cum inside you," he said, his thrusts becoming erratic. "I want to fill you up. Mark you. Make sure everyone knows you're mine."

"Yes, yes, please—"

He slammed into me one last time, buried to the hilt, and I felt his cock pulse. Hot liquid flooded me, thick and impossibly warm, pumping deep inside. I came with him, my orgasm ripping through me, my walls milking every drop. I felt it leaking out, pooling beneath us, but he stayed inside, grinding softly, riding out the aftershocks.

When he finally pulled out, a mixture of our cum trickled down my thigh. He collapsed beside me, his chest heaving, his hand resting on my stomach.

We lay there in the sticky silence, tangled together.

Then his phone buzzed on the nightstand. Once, twice. A call.

He reached over, glanced at the screen. "It's Taylor."

I tensed, but he didn't move to put the phone away. Instead, he answered, his voice flat.

"Hey."

There was a pause. I could hear her voice, tinny and distant, asking where he was, what he was doing.

He looked at me. I was still naked, still wet with his cum, my thighs spread, my hair a mess. He met my eyes and said, "Taylor, I think we should break up."

Her voice rose, sharp and incredulous. I couldn't make out the words, but the tone was disbelief. Anger.

"It's not working," he said calmly. "I've found someone else. Someone I want to be with."

A long pause. Then he hung up.

He tossed the phone aside and pulled me against his chest, his lips pressing into my hair.

"It's just you and me now, baby."

I smiled into his skin, my body still humming, my cunt still full of him. I had him. All to myself.

For tonight. For as long as I could keep him.