Sex hungry dad fucks his daughter

The morning my wife Eva left for Leiden, the airport was a blur of tears and half-hearted smiles. Chad clung to her leg, and Ivy stood stiff, her jaw tight, refusing to cry until the last possible second. I held Eva for a long moment, her body warm against mine, her perfume—that jasmine and vanilla scent—filling my nose. She kissed me, soft and lingering, and whispered, "One year. We'll be okay." I watched her walk through security, her hand raised in a wave, and then she was gone.

The first week was brutal. Our five year old son Chad cried for Mommy every night, and Ivy our older daughter took over, reading him stories, letting him sleep in her bed. I was grateful. She was fourteen going on fifeteen, and she handled the household stuff without complaint. I never asked her, she just did them. Even when I tried to stop her, she did not stop. She did laundry, made simple dinners, even helped Chad with his bath.

I could focus on work, catch up on emails, keep my mind occupied. The video calls were our lifeline. Every evening, we'd gather around my laptop, Chad on my lap, Ivy perched on the arm of the sofa, and we'd talk to Eva. She'd show us her tiny apartment, the canal outside her window, the bikes. We'd laugh, talk about school, about nothing. It felt almost normal.

But the nights were a different story.

After the kids were asleep, the house went dead quiet. I'd pour a glass of whiskey, sit on the couch, and feel the weight of the empty bed upstairs. My body remembered Eva's touch. The way her fingers traced my chest. The way she'd slide her leg between mine when we slept. The way her lips felt on my neck. I'd get hard just thinking about it, a slow, aching throb that wouldn't go away. I tried ignoring it. I'd stay up late, watch TV, browse my phone. But the ache grew, a hollow pull in my groin.

Two weeks in, I couldn't play the stoic husband anymore. I was starved. Touch-starved. Sex-starved. Every time I saw Eva on the screen, I wanted to reach through the pixels and grab her. I'd catch myself staring at her collarbone, at the curve of her shoulder, at the way her lips moved when she spoke. My cock would stir under my jeans, and I'd have to shift in my seat, hoping Ivy and Chad didn't notice.

One night, after the kids were in bed, I called Eva on a private video chat. She was in her pajamas, hair damp, sitting on her bed with the lamp glowing behind her. I didn't bother with small talk.

"I can't handle this, Eva," I said, my voice rough. "I'm going crazy. I'm horny all the time, and I can't—I jerk off but it's not—fuck, I miss you."

She smiled, a little sad. "I know, baby. I miss you too. It's hard for me as well."

"How do you do it?" I asked. "How do you cope?"

She bit her lip, and for a second she looked almost shy. "I got a rose. It's a vibrator. It helps when the tension gets too much."

"A rose? Like a flower?"

"No." She laughed. "It's a little silicone toy. Shaped like a bud. You press it against your clit. I got it from an online shop. It's actually really good."

I felt a mix of curiosity and jealousy. "Does it satisfy you?"

"It helps," she said. "I saw something online that can help you."

"Show me what it looks like," I said, my voice dropping.

She reached off-screen, brought back her phone, and pulled up a screenshot. She held it to the camera. I saw a sleek purple device, rounded on top with a little finger loop. "It's called a torch," she said. "It's rechargeable, has multiple speeds. Pretty quiet."

"Send me the link," I said.

She did, and I ordered it that night. Three days later, a small brown box arrived. I stashed it in my nightstand, feeling like a teenager hiding a dirty magazine. That night, after the kids were asleep, I locked the bedroom door and sat on the edge of the bed with the box.

Inside was a soft silicone toy, curved like a little tongue, with a handle that fit my palm. I turned it over, pressed the button, and felt it hum to life. The vibration was low and deep, buzzing through my fingers. I lubed up with lotion and pressed the head against the tip of my cock. The sensation shot through me like electricity. I gasped, my hips bucking. I teased myself, dragging the vibrator along my shaft, around the ridge of my glans. I closed my eyes and imagined it was Eva's mouth, her tongue, her wet cunt. I thought of her pussy, how she'd grip me when she came, the way her hips would grind. I pressed the torch flat against the head and held it there as the vibrations sent jolts through my whole body. I moaned, fisting the sheets, and let myself go. I came with a groan, my cum splashing onto my stomach.

I lay there, catching my breath, the torch still buzzing in my hand. It helped. The orgasm was deep, intense. But as I cleaned up, the emptiness settled back in. The toy was cold silicone. It didn't whisper my name. It didn't kiss my neck. It didn't wrap its arms around me and tell me it loved me.

I used the torch every other night after that. I learned the settings—the pulsing one that mimicked a tongue, the steady deep buzz that felt like a slow fuck. I'd lie in our bed, the sheets smelling faintly of Eva's detergent, and I'd pump myself until I came, her name on my lips. But each time, the satisfaction faded faster. I started craving more. I wanted the weight of a body next to me. I wanted the warmth of skin. I wanted a kiss.

Last night, after a particularly long day—Chad had a fever, Ivy had a huge project due, and work had piled up—I sat on the couch in the dark. The kids were sleeping. The house was silent. I had the torch in my hand, but I didn't turn it on. I just held it, running my thumb over the smooth silicone. I thought about Eva. I thought about how long a year really was. I picked up my phone and texted her: I used the torch tonight. It's not the same. I need you. I need a hug. A kiss. Anything real.

Her reply came a minute later: I know, baby. I need you too. Hold yourself for me tonight. Dream of us.

I lay down in bed, the torch beside me, unused. I wrapped my arms around Eva's pillow, buried my face in it, and breathed in the faint, fading scent of her. My cock was hard, but I didn't touch it. I just held the pillow, my eyes closed, pretending it was her. Pretending I wasn't alone. I needed another human being. And my mind went to the one I should be with.

It started as a whisper, then a hum, then a roar I couldn't silence. Maybe it was desperatation. I don't know.

All I know is I began noticing Ivy differently. Not as my daughter—but as a girl. A pretty girl. She wore these tank tops around the house, her shoulders bare, her hair tied in a loose ponytail. She'd bend over to pick up Chad's toys, and I'd catch a glimpse of the curve of her ass in her shorts. She'd laugh, and her lips would part, and I'd see the wetness of her tongue.

I hated myself for it. I'd jerk off in the shower afterward, my hand rough on my cock, trying to punish the thought away. But it kept coming back. She was sweet to me. She made me coffee in the morning without being asked. She tucked Chad in and kissed his forehead. She asked about my day. She was everything Eva had been—and more. Prettier. Younger. Right there.

The erections started happening when I least expected them. At the dinner table. While she read to Chad on the couch. I'd adjust my shorts, pray she didn't notice. She never seemed to. But I did. And the guilt churned in my gut like acid.

Then one night, it broke loose.

I don't know what triggered it. Maybe it was the way she said goodnight—"Sleep well, Dad," her voice soft, her hand brushing my shoulder. Maybe it was the lone word I heard through the thin walls in her room—something that made me stop and think. Or maybe it was the torch, lying cold in my nightstand, offering nothing but vibrations.

I got out of bed. My feet carried me down the hall. I didn't think. I didn't plan. I was a man in a daze, my blood hot, my cock half-hard already.

Her door was cracked. I pushed it open. The moonlight filtered through the curtain, catching the shape of her under the thin blanket. She was on her side, one leg kicked out. She wore a loose shirt and shorts. Her hair was spread across the pillow.

I crossed the room. My heart pounded. I sat on the edge of her bed. She stirred, blinked up at me.

"Dad?" Her voice was sleepy, confused.

I didn't answer. I leaned down and pressed my lips to hers.

She gasped. Her body went rigid. For a second, I thought she'd push me away. But then her lips softened. She kissed back.

My hand found her waist, slid up her shirt. Her skin was warm, smooth. I touched her stomach, her ribs. She didn't stop me. She didn't say a word.

I pulled her shirt up, exposing her small breasts. Her nipples were hard, dark against her pale skin. I took one in my mouth, sucked gently. She arched, a quiet moan escaping her lips. I licked and sucked, my tongue circling, her breath hitching.

Then I moved lower. I pulled off her shorts and panties in one motion. Her pussy was bare, shaved clean. I spread her thighs. I looked at her—wet, pink, glistening in the dim light. I lowered my head and licked her slit.

She shuddered. A full-body tremor. She grabbed my hair, not pulling me away but holding me there. I licked her clit, circled it, sucked it. Her hips bucked. She tasted sweet, a little salty. I pushed my tongue inside her, fucked her with it, felt her walls clench.

I kissed every part of her. Her thighs, her stomach, her neck. I lifted her feet and kissed her arches, licked between her toes. She twitched but didn't resist. I took each toe in my mouth, one by one, sucking gently. She let out a breathy little laugh.

Then I was on top of her, my cock pressed against her wet folds. I looked into her eyes. She looked back, calm, accepting.

I pushed inside.

She was wet—soaking wet. And shockingly, she wasn't a virgin. There was no barrier She opened for me like she'd done this before. Her tight pussy gripped my cock smoothly, slid along my shaft. I sank all the way in. She moaned—a loud, breathless "Oooooh."

I pulled out and thrust again. Her head fell back. "Ooooh... Ahhh..."

Her pussy was sleek, dripping. Each stroke was eased by her natural lube. I fucked her slowly at first, watching her face. She bit her lip, her eyes half-closed. She was enjoying it.

I sped up. She gripped my arms, her nails digging in. "Ohhhh... Yes... Ooooh..."

Her moans were loud. I clamped my hand over her mouth, but she pushed it away. "Chad's asleep," she whispered. "Don't stop."

I didn't stop. I fucked her harder. Her legs wrapped around my waist. Her pussy squeezed me. I felt her body tense, her cunt spasming around my cock. She came with a sharp cry, her back arching, her wetness flooding over me.

I kept going. I pulled her legs up, hooked her ankles over my shoulders, and drove into her deep. My balls slapped against her ass. She took it, her moans turning into guttural sounds—"Mmmmmh... Aaaaaah..."—just sounds, not words, pure pleasure.

She came again. I felt her milk me, her muscles contracting, pulling on my cock. I couldn't hold back. I buried my face in her neck and came, hot pulses filling her. She held me tight, her legs locked around me.

We lay there, breathing hard. I pulled out, watched my cum leak from her. She looked at me with sleepy eyes. I lowered my head and licked her clean—her thighs, her pussy, every drop. She shivered.

I didn't say a word. She didn't either. I pulled her blanket up, kissed her forehead, and left.

That was the first time.

It became our ritual. Every few nights, after Chad was asleep, I'd go to her room. She never asked why. She never said no. She'd be waiting, sometimes in just a shirt, sometimes already naked. We'd kiss, and I'd taste her, and I'd fuck her. She'd moan, loud and free, and I'd fill her. I'd clean her with my tongue, and we'd fall asleep tangled together.

I never asked who broke her. I never asked about her first time. I didn't care. I was grateful. Grateful for the wet heat, the soft moans, the body that accepted mine without question. I told myself it was wrong. I knew it was wrong. One day we'd have to stop. But the loneliness had hollowed me out, and she was the only thing that filled the void.

And every night, after I left her room, I'd lie in bed and stare at the ceiling. I'd think of Eva, miles away, touching herself with a rose, missing me. And I'd wonder if she knew. If she could sense the betrayal seeping through the walls.

But the next night, I'd go back to Ivy's room anyway.