Chapter 2: The First Time
Dale looked down at his daughter, sitting on te floor in front of him on her knees. His cock - his big daddy-cock, he thought wildly to himself - was in her mouth. And she was sucking it like it was an ice cream pop.
She was sucking it like it was an ice cream pop—enthusiastic, messy, and utterly unashamed.
Dale's breath hitched, a guttural sound that scraped out of his throat and hung in the stale bedroom air. His calloused hand hovered uselessly above her head, wanting to pull her off, needing to push her deeper, frozen somewhere between the two.
Frannie looked up at him, her wide hazel eyes glistening with tears from the strain, and she smiled around his shaft. That innocent, girlish smile he'd known since she was a baby, now wrapped around his cock, and the cognitive dissonance nearly split him in two.
Her small hands wrapped around the base, fingers that barely met, and she stroked him while her tongue traced the veiny underside. The wet heat of her mouth, the way she gagged just slightly and then pushed through it, a determined little sound humming against his skin.
"Oh god, Frannie…" he groaned, the words escaping before he could cage them. His hips bucked involuntarily, a shallow thrust that made her eyes water again, but she didn't pull away.
She pulled off with a wet pop, his cock glistening with her saliva, and she pumped him with her fist while catching her breath. "It's okay, Daddy," she whispered, her voice sticky and soft. "You can use my mouth. I want you to."
Dale's heart hammered against his ribs, a wild, caged animal clawing to get out. He was a decent man, a good father, a husband who'd kept his vows for twenty-two years, and now his daughter was crouched between his legs, telling him he could fuck her throat.
He grabbed her hair, chestnut strands tangled between his calloused fingers, and she moaned—a kittenish, heady sound of approval. "That's it," she breathed, guiding him back to her lips. "Let go, Daddy. I've got you."
She took him again, deeper this time, her nose pressing against his groin, and she held there for a moment, the primal heat of it making him see stars. Her throat convulsed around his tip and she pulled back just enough to breathe, then dove again, a rhythm forming as she worked him with her hand and mouth in frantic tandem.
"Fuck," he hissed, the profanity tasting foreign and filthy on his tongue. He'd never cursed in front of his daughter. He'd never imagined this, not even in his darkest, most shameful fantasies.
Her tongue laved against his balls, soft and wet, and she took one into her mouth, sucking gently while her hand maintained its relentless pace on his shaft. Dale's legs trembled. He grabbed the edge of the rumpled mattress to keep himself upright.
The bedsprings squeaked in protest beneath his weight. The sound of her wet, visceral work—the slurp and swallow and the occasional gag—filled the room, drowning out the distant hum of the refrigerator from downstairs, the ticking of the hallway clock.
"Where do you want it, Daddy?" Frannie asked, pulling off just long enough to kiss the side of his shaft, her lips trailing down to the spot where his balls met his thighs. "In my mouth? On my face? I want to taste you."
The moment shattered something in Dale, the last thin filament of his resistance. He gripped her hair harder, tilting her head back, and she looked up at him—that gaze full of mischief and reverence and hunger.
"Please," she whispered, stroking him with both hands, her thumbs circling his swollen tip. "Give it to me, Daddy. I want everything."
He thrust upward, his hips taking over as she opened her throat, that wet, impossible tightness pulling him deeper. Her moan vibrated around him, and he felt the pressure building, the heat at the base of his spine coiling like a snake about to strike.
"Frannie, baby, I'm gonna—"
She slipped her thumb into the seam of his testicles, pressing just so, and he came apart. The first surge filled her mouth, hot and thick, and she gasped but didn't pull away, her throat working to swallow it all. His hands shook, and the second, third, fourth pulses escaped around her lips, painting her chin and splattering across her cheeks and the small hollow of her chest.
Frannie held him in her mouth until he stopped twitching, then pulled off with a soft, obscene pop. She wiped the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand and licked her fingers clean, never breaking eye contact.
"Wow," she breathed, her voice husky and delighted. "You taste so good, Daddy."
Dale collapsed back on the bed, his chest heaving, his cock softening and glistening in his daughter's spunk. The shame hit him in a hot, nauseating wave.
"Oh god," he murmured, covering his face with his forearm. "Oh god, Frannie, I'm so sorry. This is so wrong."
She crawled up onto the bed with him, small and warm, pressing her sticky face against his shoulder. Her chestnut hair tickled his arm, and he could feel her tiny body trembling with satisfied adrenaline.
"Don't be sorry," she whispered. "I wanted to do that. I've wanted to do that for a long time, Daddy. And mom? She's missing out on so much."
He flinched. His wife. Margeret. At work, unaware that her husband had just come in their daughter's mouth. The guilt was a heavy, suffocating blanket, but beneath it—buried deep and squirming—was something else.
Hunger. A dark, greedy, terrible hunger for more.
Frannie kissed his shoulder, soft and innocent, like a child giving a goodnight peck. "I'm always here, Daddy. Whenever you need me. I can do things she'll never do."
Dale lay there, chest heaving, the taste of his own shame metallic on his tongue. The ceiling fan churned overhead, pushing warm air around the room, but nothing could cool the heat still throbbing in his veins.
"Frannie, we can't—" he started, but she pressed a small finger to his lips. Her touch was featherlight, almost maternal, which somehow made it worse.
"Shh," she whispered, her voice carrying that soft, husky quality she'd acquired in the last few minutes. "You don't have to decide anything right now. Just breathe."
He breathed. In through his nose, out through his mouth, while his daughter lay curled against his side like she'd done when she was six years old with a fever. Except her lips were still swollen from sucking him, and there was a fading red mark on her cheek where his semen had splattered.
"I should get dressed," he said finally, sitting up. The movement made his head swim. "Your mother will be home any minute."
Frannie rolled off the bed with an easy grace, landing lightly on her bare feet. She was still in her pajamas—a thin cotton tank top and shorts that had ridden up to reveal the curve of her hip. She didn't bother adjusting them.
She walked to the door, then turned back with that cherubic smile. "We'll talk later, Daddy. I promise, it's okay."
She left him there, sitting on the edge of the rumpled bed with his softening cock still wet from her mouth. The door clicked shut with a soft finality.
Dale sat in silence for a long moment, staring at the floral wallpaper that had been there since Frannie was a toddler. He'd painted this room himself, chosen the pattern with Margaret, watched his daughter grow up in this house. Now he'd defiled it, defiled her, and the worst part—the truly sickening part—was that he wanted more.
He dressed slowly, methodically, pulling on his work jeans and a clean t-shirt. He wiped his stomach with a tissue, then the corner of his mouth where her kiss had lingered. The shame sat in his gut like a stone, but beneath it, buried deep, something else stirred.
At dinner, Frannie was radiant. She chattered about her day, about a friend from school who was dating an older guy, about a movie she wanted to see. She passed the mashed potatoes and laughed at her father's attempts at small talk, never once meeting his eyes with anything but innocent warmth.
Margaret, oblivious, complained about her boss and the neighbor's dog. Dale nodded along, pushing food around his plate, watching his daughter's small hands as she buttered a roll. Those hands had been wrapped around his cock just hours ago.
He excused himself early, claiming exhaustion. In the shower, he stood under the hot spray and let the water run over him, trying to wash away the memory of her mouth, her tongue, the way she'd looked up at him with those wide hazel eyes.
It didn't work.
He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, while Margaret got ready for her book club. The sheets still smelled like Frannie's shampoo, and he hated himself for noticing.
At 7:30, Margaret emerged from the bathroom, fully dressed in a simple blouse and slacks, her graying hair pulled back. "I'll be home by eleven," she said, grabbing her purse. "Don't wait up."
The front door clicked shut. The house fell silent.
Dale lay there for a long moment, listening to the hum of the refrigerator, the distant bark of a neighbor's dog. He should go to sleep. He should forget this whole day ever happened.
A soft knock on his door made his heart hammer against his ribs.
"Come in," he said, his voice cracking.
Frannie pushed the door open, still in her pajamas—the same thin tank top and shorts from earlier. Her hair was brushed, glossy, and she smelled like strawberry shampoo. She looked like a child, except for the knowing glint in her eyes.
"Did you think about it?" she asked, her voice soft, almost shy. "What I said earlier?"
Dale swallowed. "Frannie, this is—"
"I know what it is," she cut him off, stepping closer. "I know it's taboo. I know it's wrong. But Daddy..." She stopped at the edge of his bed, looking down at him with an expression that was equal parts vulnerability and desire. "Mom doesn't want you. She told you that tonight, didn't she?"
He flinched. Margaret's words from earlier echoed in his memory: I'm just not interested in that kind of thing, Dale. Can't you just be satisfied with what we have?
"Frannie, you're my daughter—"
"I'm also a woman," she interrupted, her voice firm. "And I want you. All of you. The parts Mom won't touch, won't try, won't even look at." Her small hand reached out, resting on his knee through the blanket. "I told you. I can do things she'll never do."
The heat rose in him again, unbidden, shameful, undeniable. His cock stirred beneath the sheets, and Frannie's eyes flicked down, tracking the movement.
"There it is," she whispered, a smile playing at her lips. "You want this too, Daddy. You just need permission."
He hated how easily she read him. He hated how much he wanted to say yes.
And then he said it anyway.
"Yes."
The word hung in the air between them, heavy and terrible and liberating all at once. Frannie's smile widened, and for a moment, she looked genuinely happy—like a girl who'd just been given the pony she'd always begged for.
"Good," she breathed. "Come to my room."
She turned and walked out, leaving the door open behind her. Dale sat frozen for a moment, his heart pounding, his conscience screaming, his body already swinging its legs off the bed.
He followed her.
The hallway was dark, lit only by the pale glow of moonlight through the window at the end. Her bedroom door stood ajar, soft golden light spilling through the crack. He pushed it open and stepped inside.
Frannie knelt on the twin bed, the familiar floral wallpaper casting shadows around her. She smiled, patting the space beside her.
"Come here, Daddy," she said softly. "Let me take care of you properly this time."
Dale crossed the room, his footsteps heavy, his breath ragged. When he reached the bed, Frannie reached up and pulled him down, guiding him to lie beside her. She straddled his hips, her small frame surprisingly strong, and looked down at him with those wide hazel eyes.
"Much better," she murmured, trailing a finger down his chest. "Now, let's do this right."
She leaned in and kissed him, open-mouthed and hungry, and Dale felt the last shred of his resistance crumble. He kissed her back, his hands finding her waist, pulling her closer.
They had all night. And Frannie planned to use every second of it.