Winter' Plan to Seduce Her Daddy

14 year old Winter Haven has a plan to seduce her father while he is asleep with the flu.

The lamplight caught the heavy curve of him, and Winter's breath stopped somewhere in her throat. Nine inches, thick and veined even in sleep, lying against his thigh where the waistband had trapped his jeans. Her daddy's cock. Right there. Real.

Her fingers hovered over it without touching, trembling so bad she had to grab her own wrist to steady herself. The air in the room had gone thick and warm, smelling like his sweat and the medicine that had made his chest rise so slow and even. She could hear the second hand of the kitchen clock. Could hear her own blood.

"Oh," she breathed, and the sound came out smaller than she meant. Like a prayer. Like she'd just walked into a church and seen god.

She'd imagined it. Of course she'd imagined it. In her bed at night with her hand between her legs, biting her pillow so he wouldn't hear, she'd pictured this exact moment a hundred times. But imagination hadn't prepared her for the sheer weight of him. The way the skin looked darker there, the veins running like rivers under the surface, the way his balls hung heavy and full between his spread legs. Real. A man's body. Her daddy's body.

Her mouth went dry. Then wet again. She swallowed.

Winter dropped to her knees on the carpet, the rough fibers digging into her bare knees through her thin pajama shorts. She didn't feel it. Couldn't feel anything except the pull in her chest, the ache between her legs that had been building for months, years, every time she watched him walk through the kitchen in his undershirt, every time his arm brushed hers reaching for the remote.

Her hand moved without permission. The tips of her fingers touched the side of his shaft, feather-light, and he didn't move. Didn't twitch. Just lay there, mouth slack, breathing deep, lost in whatever fever dream the medicine had pulled him into.

"Daddy," she whispered, testing it. The word felt different now. Thick in her mouth. Secret. "Daddy, I'm gonna—"

She couldn't finish the sentence. Couldn't say it out loud. Saying it would make it real, and if it was real then she was really doing this, and if she was really doing this then she couldn't take it back, couldn't pretend she hadn't seen, hadn't touched, hadn't wanted.

But she'd already seen. Already touched. Her fingertips were still resting against his skin, feeling the heat of him, the faint pulse under the surface.

Her hand wrapped around him.

He was warm. Heavy. Her fingers couldn't meet around the shaft—couldn't even get close. She held him and he filled her whole palm and still half of him stuck out above her grip, thick and dark against her pale skin. She stared at the contrast. Her small hand. His big cock. Like she was holding something that wasn't meant to fit inside her at all.

The thought made her clench. Made her thighs press together under her shorts, trying to find pressure, trying to ease the ache that was spreading through her like heat through glass.

She stroked him. Once. Tentative. Watching the skin slide over the hard length underneath, watching the way the head peeked out from its hood and then disappeared again. He was already hard. Had he been hard the whole time? While she was fumbling with his belt, while she was pulling his jeans down, had he been lying there with his cock erect and waiting and she hadn't even noticed?

The thought made her dizzy. Made her grip tighter. She stroked him again, slower this time, watching the head emerge fully, watching the slit at the tip, the small glisten of moisture there.

She licked her lips without meaning to.

"I want to taste you," she said, and her voice was shaky, almost pleading. Like he could hear her. Like he could answer. "Daddy, I want to put you in my mouth so bad."

Her thumb found the tip, spread the moisture across the head, felt the velvet-soft skin over the iron hardness underneath. She brought her thumb to her mouth and tasted him—salt and skin and something else, something deeper, something that was just him.

A moan escaped her. Small. Embarrassed. She didn't care.

Winter leaned forward, her hair falling around her face, and opened her mouth over the head of his cock. The weight of it on her tongue was shocking—real and warm and alive, pulsing against her lips like a second heartbeat. She closed her eyes and took him deeper, letting her mouth slide down his shaft, feeling the veins against her tongue, feeling him reach the back of her throat and press there, insistent.

She gagged. Pulled back. Tried again.

This time she breathed through her nose and forced herself to relax, to take him deeper, to let him fill her mouth until her lips touched her own fingers where they gripped the base. He was too big. She couldn't take all of him, couldn't even take half, but she tried anyway, bobbing her head, letting her saliva slick the way, letting the sounds fill the room—wet and hungry and wrong and perfect.

Her hand worked the part her mouth couldn't reach, stroking in rhythm with her bobs, feeling him grow harder in her grip, feeling the veins stand out more. She could taste herself on her lips. Could feel the wetness between her legs soaking through her shorts, making the fabric cling to her.

"I'm gonna—" she gasped, pulling off to breathe, a string of saliva connecting her lips to his cock. "I'm gonna ride you, Daddy. I'm gonna put you inside me."

She said it out loud. Made it real.

Her hands shook as she hooked her thumbs into her shorts and pushed them down her hips, stepping out of them, leaving the wet fabric in a puddle on the carpet. Her pussy was bare beneath, the red triangle of hair glistening with her own wetness, the lips swollen and pink and hungry. She touched herself without thinking—two fingers sliding through the slickness, spreading it, feeling how ready she was, how open.

She was so wet it dripped down her thigh.

Winter climbed onto the couch, one knee on either side of his hips, hovering over him. His cock stood straight up, pointing at her, the head wet with her spit and his own pre-cum. She reached down and guided it, pressing the tip against her entrance, feeling the impossible stretch before he'd even pushed inside.

"Oh god," she whispered. "Oh god, Daddy, it's so big—"

She lowered herself. A fraction of an inch. The head pushed past her lips, stretched her, burned, and she gasped and stopped, eyes wide, breath ragged. It hurt. It hurt so good. She could feel every ridge, every vein, every impossible inch of him pressing into places she'd never been touched before.

"Please," she begged, though she didn't know who she was begging. "Please, please—"

She lowered herself another inch. Her mouth fell open. A sound came out of her that she'd never made before—high and desperate and broken.

He was too big. She was too small. She couldn't take him. She wanted to die trying.

Her hips rocked, grinding against him, and another inch disappeared. She could feel him inside her now, filling her, stretching her walls to their limit. Her fingers dug into his chest, gripping his shirt, hanging on like he was the only solid thing in a world that had tilted sideways.

"Daddy," she moaned, and the word was a prayer. "Daddy, Daddy, Daddy—"

She sank lower. More. More. Her thighs met his hips and she was full, completely full, stuffed to the brim with his cock, and she couldn't breathe, couldn't think, could only feel the impossible weight of him inside her, the ache of the stretch, the sharp line between pleasure and pain blurring into something that made her see stars.

She sat there, impaled, shaking, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. She'd done it. She'd taken all of him. He was inside her. Her daddy was inside her.

The thought sent a shudder through her whole body.

She began to move. Slowly at first, rising an inch, sinking back down, her small hands gripping his shirt for balance. The friction was incredible—his thickness dragging against her inner walls, the head pressing against something deep inside her that made sparks shoot up her spine. She found a rhythm. Rocking. Grinding. Taking him deeper each time, until she wasn't sure where she ended and he began.

"Oh fuck," she whimpered, the curse word feeling dangerous and adult on her tongue. "Oh fuck, Daddy, you feel so good—"

His hips twitched. A reflex, nothing more, completely unconscious. But it drove him deeper, tilted him inside her at a different angle, and she cried out, her nails digging into his chest through the fabric.

"Yes—right there—don't stop—"

She was babbling now, words spilling out of her without filter, confessing everything she'd never had the courage to say.

"I've wanted this so long. I think about you every night. I touch myself thinking about you, about your cock, about how big you are, about how you'd feel inside me—"

She rode him harder, faster, her small body bouncing against his larger frame, the leather of the couch creaking beneath them. Sweat beaded on her forehead, dripped down her neck, mixed with the salt she'd tasted on his skin. Her thighs burned. Her lungs burned. Everything burned, and she couldn't stop, didn't want to stop, would die before she stopped.

The pressure was building inside her, coiling low in her belly, spreading through her legs and up her spine. She could feel it coming, could feel the edge approaching, could feel her body beginning to tighten around his cock in waves that made her gasp.

"I'm gonna—Daddy, I'm gonna come—"

She slammed down onto him one last time, grinding her hips against his, and the wave broke. Her vision went white. Her mouth opened but no sound came out. Her body clenched around him, rippling and pulsing, milking a cock that wasn't moving, wasn't awake, wasn't even aware it was inside her.

She collapsed onto his chest, gasping, trembling, her heart hammering against his ribs. She could feel his heart too—steady, slow, completely undisturbed. He hadn't woken up. Hadn't moved. Had no idea what had just happened.

She lay there for a long moment, her cheek against his shirt, his cock still buried deep inside her. She could feel her own wetness leaking around him, making a mess of his thigh, of the leather. She could feel herself clenching around him in aftershocks, small and helpless and satisfied.

She lifted her head and looked at his face. Slack. Unaware. The same face she'd seen a thousand times, but different now. Hers now. She'd taken something from him that he didn't even know he'd given, and the knowledge burned in her chest like a brand.

"I love you, Daddy," she whispered, and pressed a kiss to his stubbled jaw.

She didn't move. Didn't pull away. She stayed there, full of him, and listened to the clock tick in the kitchen, counting the minutes until she'd have to let him go.