Daddy takes a bite out of his Slutty Daughter

A neglected and abused father, drugged by his own daughter's defiance, takes his revenge. Taking his piece of her pussy!

Disclaimer: Welcome to a world where forbidden desire is the only rule. This story is part of a collection where all lines are meant to be crossed. If you keep reading, you're already on the other side.
Reader discretion is advised.
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This is a story that was inspired by my previous story ‘Fucking My Daughter's Bitchy Mouth’, mixed with with some personal experience.

Henry was a man living in a house that no longer felt like his own. His daughter, Tess, was seventeen and a carbon copy of her mother, Adrinna. And Adrinna’s voice, when it finally came through the speakerphone, was sharp and impatient.
"I'm in the middle of closing a seven-figure deal, Henry. What is it? And for God's sake, make it quick." She didn't wait for an answer before continuing, her words clipped and precise. "Tell Tess she can use my Amex for the dress. I'll see you both in three weeks, if this merger doesn't kill me first." The line went dead. That was Adrinna.
Her career was soaring, a meteoric rise that meant she was never home, leaving behind a trail of expensive gifts for Tess to soften her absence. It was a strategy that worked. Tess was spoiled, entitled, and viewed her father as little more than a walking ATM and a source of inconvenient rules.
Against Henry’s wishes and pleas, the spoiling continued. To make matters worse, he was the one left carrying the financial weight of the house—the mortgage, the groceries, the bills that Adrinna’s high-powered salary somehow never seemed to cover. He felt drained, emotionally and financially bankrupt. The intimacy in his marriage had withered and died; they hadn’t had sex in weeks, and when they did, it was a quick, unfulfilling act for him. He’d stopped caring about her needs, just as she’d clearly stopped caring about his.
This particular night, the fragile peace of the house shattered. The fight was over a speeding ticket Tess had gotten in his car, a transgression she’d hidden until the official notice arrived in the mail.
"Mom's the one who pushed me to get my permit!" she'd screamed. "But God forbid she lets me touch her precious car!"
"And I'm not paying for it," Adrinna had stated flatly from the kitchen, not even looking up from her tablet. "A lesson in responsibility."
Henry had argued that a lesson he couldn't afford wasn't a lesson at all. The fight ended the way they always did: with Tess storming out, slamming the door behind her, shouting that she was going out with friends. Probably using a fake ID, Henry thought bitterly. And then, silence. He was alone. And for the first time all night, he was at peace.
He grabbed a beer from the fridge and collapsed onto the couch, sinking into the mindless escape of a sci-fi blockbuster. About two hours into the movie, the doorbell chimed, insistent and harsh. A small camera feed automatically popped up on the side of the TV screen, showing the front porch. It was Tess's friends, he could only see Janice properly, and she was turned away, her body supporting a limp weight—Tess.
Henry’s heart seized. He threw the door open. "What happened?"
Janice and another girl he barely knew were pale and shaken. "We're so sorry, Mr. D," Janice stammered, her voice trembling. "We were at this party, and these guys... they were trying to drug us. I saw one of them drop a pill into Tess's drink right before she took it. I screamed and we just ran. We got out of there."
Henry’s blood ran cold. He looked at his daughter, her head lolling to the side, her eyes closed. She was responsive but not awake. She had changed her clothes at some point, now wearing a tight top and a skirt that looked wrong on her, so unlike the girl he thought he knew.
He thanked the girls profusely, took his daughter into his arms, and carried her inside. He didn't know why he bypassed her room and headed for his own, but it felt right. He laid her gently on his bed, the scent of her perfume—a floral, grown-up scent he didn't recognize—filling the air. He stood over her, staring. The anger and fear from moments before began to curdle into something else, something dark and possessive.
His hand, moving with a will of its own, reached down and pulled the hem of her top up, over her head. Her bra was a simple lace number, the kind of thing a girl wears when she wants to be seen. He fumbled with the clasp, and it came away. He hadn't seen her naked since she was a child, all awkward angles and gangly limbs. This was different. Her breasts were perfect, full and pale in the dim light, the nipples small and tight. They were the breasts of a woman, a stranger lying on his bed. He felt his breath catch, a primal stirring in his gut that had nothing to do with fatherly love.
His hands moved to the waistband of her skirt, his heart beginning to pound a heavy, frantic rhythm against his ribs. He hooked his fingers into the fabric and pulled it down over her hips, the whisper of it sliding down her legs impossibly loud in the silent room. And then he saw all of her.
The last trace of the girl he knew was gone, replaced by this stunning, forbidden creature. Her stomach was flat, dipping to a subtle curve below her navel, leading down to the neat, trimmed triangle of dark hair between her legs. It was just the right amount, a dark, soft delta that drew the eye downward to the promise of what lay beneath. And there it was—her sex. The delicate folds were visible, peeking through the neat trimming, exquisitely begging for his attention. It was a perfect, silent invitation, a flower waiting to be claimed.
A raw, animal lust, so powerful it was dizzying, slammed into him. His cock, already half-hard from the sight of her breasts, sprang to full, throbbing life, a painful, demanding ache in his jeans. He wasn't just looking at his daughter anymore; he was looking at a piece of art he was about to defile, a ripe fruit he was about to claim. He had to fuck her. He had to be inside this perfect, underage teenager right now.
And that's when the thought struck him with the force of a revelation: this would never happen again. There would only ever be one first time. One moment when he saw her like this for the first time. One first violation. This had to be recorded. It wasn't just a trophy; it was a way to immortalize this perfect, stolen moment, to own it forever.
His movements, previously hesitant, were now driven by a singular, desperate purpose. He positioned his phone on the nightstand, propping it up against a lamp. Then he took the camera he had in the closet—the one he'd used to use to film him and Adrianna when they were still passionate about one another. Henry placed it on a stand on his dresser, angled for a different view. He would record everything he was about to take from his daughter.
Lying naked on his bed, she was fucking beautiful.
He quickly stripped off his own clothes. His cock was already hard for her, a throbbing, painful testament to his depraved desire. He knelt beside her, lowering his head to her chest. He made love to her breasts, tenderly at first, tasting the soft skin with his tongue, taking her nipples into his mouth and sucking gently. His other hand slid down her flat stomach, his fingers finding her clit and beginning to rub in slow, deliberate circles. A sound escaped her throat, a soft moan that was pure biology, a betrayal of her sleeping mind.
He moved down the bed, parting her legs. He ate her pussy with a hunger he hadn't felt in years, his tongue exploring her folds as his fingers worked inside her, fucking her in a steady rhythm. He felt her body tense, her back arching off the bed in a spasm that was part pleasure, part seizure, a convulsion he had wrenched from her unwilling flesh. He felt the slick walls of her cunt clench around him, not in passion, but in a panicked, reflexive grip. He paused, his face wet with her. He wanted to be inside her, to feel her with nothing between them. He'd rawdog it. But he had to pull out. He knew she’d been giving it away, but he didn't know when the last time was. The timeframe might not add up.
He positioned himself between her legs and slid his cock into his teenage daughter. She was tight, wet, and perfect. He abused the hell out of her pussy, fucking her hard, the bed creaking in protest with every brutal thrust. Just as he felt his own orgasm building, he pulled out, grabbing her hips and almost tossing her off the bed as he rolled her onto her stomach.
He spread her ass cheeks, spat on her tight hole, and stuck two fingers in, stretching her. As soon as he felt he could get in, he pressed the head of his cock against her asshole and pushed in, he stopped and savored the incredible grip her ass had on his cock, he took some deep slow strokes first, wanting to draw out his orgasm. But he gradually picked up a pace where he was fucking her ass until he unloaded deep inside her.
When he was done he stood over her for a few minutes, his chest heaving, watching his cum leak out of her. He wasn't feeling guilt. He was feeling satisfaction. Justification. He had taken back what he felt was stolen from him—his authority, his respect. He dressed her carefully, his touch methodical, handling his property, cleaning up and putting his toy back in its box. He recovered his phone, but as for the other camera, he left it. He wanted her to find it. It was the next step in his campaign of ownership, a message of power. He got dressed, and returned to his movie, as if nothing had happened.
The next morning, after her parents rushed out of the house to work, Tess walked into her parent’s room looking for her mother's spare phone charger. Her head throbbed with the familiar, dull ache of a party gone too long. She couldn't remember how she'd gotten home, but that wasn't exactly unusual. Her nights were often a blurry montage of loud music, cheap booze, and fumbling in the backseats of cars. The soreness between her legs and the strange, chemical taste in her mouth were just par for the course. Another Saturday night.
Her eyes scanned the cluttered surface of her father's dresser—a chaotic landscape of loose change, old receipts, and stray keys. Nothing. She slid open the top drawer of his desk. Unlocked. Still no charger. But then her gaze fell upon it: a small, matte-black device nestled in a charging cradle. A camera. And a tiny red LED pulsed with steady, deliberate light.
Still recording.
Curious, she lifted it from its dock. The device felt heavier than expected, cold and solid in her palm. Professional. Her father had never mentioned an interest in photography, never shown any inclination toward filmmaking. Why was this here? He'd clearly recorded something recently, and in his haste to hide it, forgotten to power it down.
What had he captured?
Her fingers traced the device's edges as her mind raced. A quick inspection revealed the port type—she had the right cable in her room. The camera disappeared into her pocket, a small, weighted secret against her thigh. Time stretched before her, ripe with possibility. She interest was piqued. She had time to check it out.

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