My Dad ruined me, now I found another father figure

My dad never remmaried after mom's passing. I never met her but only saw her in pictures. A blonde woman unlike my dark brown hair. Otherwise, in most ways we looked alike. At fourteen on 17th Feb Dad took me to the salon to dye my hair blonde.

It was on that night when for the first time my father’s hand slid past the waistband of my pajama shorts. I remember the exact weight of his palm, warm and calloused, pressing against the mound of my cunt through the thin cotton. He’d come into my room after a nightmare—or so I told myself at the time. He sat on the edge of my bed, the mattress dipping, and whispered that I am the best girl in the world. His fingers found the slit, traced along the fabric until I was wet, until I was gasping, until I arched into his touch without knowing what I was asking for. Then he said.

"Calm down Delia, you are such a slut, why are you so greedy."

I blushed at the words and he pulled my shorts down, then my panties, and I let him spread my legs. His mouth followed his fingers, tongue flat against my clit, and I came for the first time in my life—not from a boy my age fumbling in the dark, but from my own father, his beard scratchy against my inner thighs, his breath hot and ragged. He didn’t fuck me that first night. He just licked and sucked until I was a trembling mess, then kissed my forehead and told me to sleep.

It became our ritual. Weeknights, weekends, after school. I started taking the pill at the same age because that's when he started fucking my cunt. It was too tight at first but by the time I was fifteen I knew the exact pressure of his cock sliding into me—slow at first, then deeper, until his balls pressed against my ass. I could take the whole six inches fully. I was also no longer blushing but getting turned on by his degrading words.We tried anal sex once but he didn't favor it much. He preferred my pussy. Which he said was too tight. That he was making it better for my future husband. He’d fuck me on my bed, on the living room couch, once over the kitchen counter while a pot of spaghetti boiled over. I’d wrap my legs around his waist and bite my lip so I wouldn’t scream. He liked silent sex, he'd made that very clear from the start. He taught me to swallow his cum, to clean him with my tongue, to beg for it. I was his little girl in every sense—his to use, his to fill, his to own.

By the time I was sixteen we were sharing a bedroom despite living in a four bedroom house. I soon learned about his obsession with my hair by how he'd get mad anytime my dark roots were showing. I learned to make him happy. I learned that he liked me slutty and I dressed like one whenever we were home together. I used pot, cigarettes and alcohol with his supervision. Sometimes he liked to fuck me when I was stoned, or high or drunk. Other times both of us were. We just did every wrong thing in society. Am just glad we did not do hard drugs.

Most days, I would wake up to take care of his morning wood. And I was the one initiating it sometimes because it made him degrade me more. I always went to school fully satisfied. This is why I probably had no need for a boyfriend. I never dated anyone at all. Many people thought it was because of religion and believed I was a virgin but little did they know. Come to think of it, I never saw dad with any woman either. Our relatives praised him for being a good dad and me being a good daughter and they weren't wrong. We were really good to each other. He spoiled me with satisfying sex.

When I turned nineteen, he told me he was moving to Thailand. A job offer, he said. A fresh start. He said that I needed to live a normal life. He sold the house and deposited the money into an account he had been saving for me that I could only access when I turned twenty seven. That he'd still support me. I cried for the memories of my house. I cried more for my dad but not the way a daughter should. I cried because I knew no one else would ever make me feel the way he did—the way only a father can, tattooed in the deepest, sickest part of my soul. That no man could fill the hole he left in my heart and cunt. He left on a Tuesday after we had our farewell sex. I watched his plane cut through the clouds and felt something hollow open in my chest.

For a while I tried to be normal. Dated guys my age, let them fumble with my bra straps and kiss me with too much spit. None of them knew what to do with a girl who wanted to be taken, who wanted to be drowned in it. Then I met Ethan. A business man. He was twenty-three, steady, kind, with warm brown eyes and a laugh that made me forget, sometimes, the void my father left. He was also from a good family, I established as the capital from his business had been given to him by his father. Yeah that sounds materialistic but I do prefer people who aren't struggling a lot.

He asked me out to coffee, then dinner, then a weekend trip to the coast. He held my hand in public, opened doors, told me I was beautiful in a way that didn’t feel like a demand. My first real boyfriend. On bed, he knew what he was doing and he had a good sized cock. I can't say I was starved. Six months in, when I'd just turned twenty, he proposed with a simple silver band and a promise to build a life together. I said yes. I meant it.

But now I lie awake in our shared apartment, Ethan’s arm draped over my waist, his breath slow and even, and I think about Thailand. The almost daily phone calls with dad aren't sexual, he tells me about the weather, ask about my boyfriend and other normal stuff but they turn me on. Tonight I think about my father alone in some humid room, fucking other women, or the beautiful asian trans women (how can I even compete with that) —or maybe not. Maybe he’s waiting. Maybe he is testing me and he knows I’ll come crawling back. The thought makes my cunt clench, a hot pulse that has nothing to do with the nice man beside me.

Tonight, Ethan rolls over in his sleep and his hand slides down, landing on my hip. I freeze. His fingers are warm, soft, nothing like my father’s rough grip. He’s not trying to wake me. He’s just dreaming. But my body remembers the weight of another hand, the way my dad used to grope me in the dark, thumb pressing against my clit until I bucked. I shift my hips, just a little, and Ethan’s fingers slip between my thighs without him stirring. I hold my breath and imagine it’s my father’s hand. I imagine the smell of cigarettes and sweat, the low growl in his voice when he’d whisper, “You’re Daddy’s little slut, aren’t you?”

I start to grind against Ethan’s limp fingers, slow circles, my teeth sinking into my lower lip. I hate myself for it. I love myself for it. I’m so wet that the fabric of my sleep shorts is soaked through. I press harder, imagining my father’s cock instead, the familiar stretch, the way he’d push my knees to my chest and drive into me until I couldn’t breathe. I imagine his voice telling me as he had for years. Those words he used to tell me when inside me.

"You are a naughty girl. You dyed your hair to seduce daddy to fuck you because you are so greedy for my cock."

"You want daddys cock."

"You are wet because you are a slut."

"This cock won't lick itself Delia, kneel and suck it."

"Your pussy likes cock too Much Delia!"

"I am fucking you again slut because you never get enough."

"Tame your urges Delia, you are so slutty. It's your fault I can't stop fucking you. You seduce me all the time."

Why can't Ethan talk to me like that? I come silently, a shuddering release that leaves me trembling, and Ethan doesn’t even wake.

Afterward, I stare at the ceiling. My fiancé is a good man. He’ll give me a safe life, a gentle life. But deep in my heart, where the dirtiest secrets live, I miss the forbidden more than I miss air. I miss my father’s voice on the phone, telling me he loves me in that husky tone that used to precede a long night. I miss the bruises he left on my hips, the ache in my jaw after a deep throat session. I miss being owned.

Tomorrow I’ll videobcall him. Just to hear his voice. Just to see him... if the hunger is still alive on the other end of the line. And if it is, I’ll get a passport and book a ticket to Bangkok before Ethan even knows I’m gone. Because nice and safe can wait. But Daddy—Daddy never could.

But that doesn't happen. The next day Ethan takes me to meet his family and my forbidden thoughts become a second priority. I tell myself I'm just nervous about making a good impression. I wear a modest sundress, keep my voice soft, practice the right smile in the mirror. His mom opens the door first—Susan, slim, late forties but looks thirty, with kind green eyes and blonde dyed hair like mine pinned neatly in a pony tail. She hugs me tight, says Ethan's told her everything. I like her. His brothers are next: Mark, twenty-six, built like a linebacker with a boisterous laugh, and Jake, twenty-one, quieter, still living at home while he finishes college. They're nice. Normal. The kind of family I never had. I like them.

Then I see him.

Ethan's dad steps out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on a dish towel. He's tall—broad shoulders that fill the doorway, a strong jaw dusted with stubble, salt-and-pepper hair cropped short. His eyes are the same warm brown as Ethan's, but deeper, sharper, carrying decades of weight I want to drown in. He's wearing a simple plaid shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing forearms corded with muscle and veins. His name is David, late forties, maybe fifty. Every inch of him is man—rough, seasoned, the kind of rugged that makes my knees weak.

The kind that reminds me of my father.

"Dad, this is my fiancée," Ethan says, his hand on the small of my back.

He steps forward, extends his hand. I take it. His palm is calloused, his grip firm, and when he smiles—a slow, easy smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes—I feel a pulse of heat between my legs so sudden I almost gasp.

"Nice to meet you," he says. His voice is low, gravelly, like he's swallowed smoke and whiskey.

I manage to say "Hi" without my voice cracking, but inside I'm already burning. I can't stop staring at his hands. The way his fingers curl around a coffee mug. The way his thumb rubs absently along the rim. I think about those hands on me—gripping my hips, spreading my thighs—and I have to press my knees together under the table during dinner. I tell them about my father, and his being away and they all understand the situation. Losing a wife is tough, Susan says. But David rolls his eyes at that. I don't overthink it, I am just happy to be accepted in this family. I offer them a video call with him but they say it's not necessary.

We don't have a wedding. Ethan and I both agreed it's just paperwork—faster, cheaper, no fuss. We go to the courthouse on a Tuesday afternoon two weeks after meeting the family. I wear a white blouse and a pencil skirt. Ethan wears a suit. His parents come to witness. My real dad says he wishes me well but can't come. I sighn first. Then Ethan signs the certificate with a teary smile. Then Susan. Finally Ethan's dad signs his name next as a witness, leaning over the counter, and I watch the muscles in his forearm flex as he writes his name. David Harris.

When the judge pronounces us married, David shakes Ethan's hand, then turns to me. He pulls me into a hug—brief, appropriate, nothing more than a father-in-law's congratulatory embrace. But I feel his chest against mine, his hip brushing my thigh, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from moaning. His cologne is subtle, woodsy, mixed with something clean and male. I inhale deep, memorizing it.

That night, in our apartment, Ethan makes love to me gently as he usually does. I close my eyes and picture David's face—that stubbled jaw, those knowing eyes—and I come hard, digging my nails into Ethan's back, whispering "yes, yes, yes" while imagining his father's cock buried inside me instead.

Our sex life improves dramatically after that. I'm more eager, more enthusiastic. My slutty side that I had hidden away awakens. Dad was right I am a slut who seduces men. I like cock too much and it scares me. I suck Ethan's dick like I'm starving for it, and when he asks what's gotten into me, I just smile and say I'm happy. He comments that he's glad that I am so happy Iwe are married. But in my head, I'm sucking David. I'm tasting his precum, feeling his thick fingers tangled in my hair, hearing that gravelly voice tell me I'm a good girl.

One month into our official marriage, we get a phone call. I'm in the kitchen making dinner when Ethan answers, his brow furrowing. He walks into the living room, voice low. I can only catch fragments—"Again?" and "What did he say?" and "He has to leave?"

He hangs up, rubbing his face.

"Mom kicked Dad out," he says. "They had a fight about money. He made some bad investments, and she found out. She told him to get out."

I feel a flicker of hope so sharp it's almost painful. Stay calm, I tell myself. Don't look eager.

"Oh no," I say, putting on a concerned face. "That's terrible."

Ethan sighs. "I'm going to ask him to stay with us. I don't trust him to live alone, he is such a big risker. Just until they sort things out. Please allow me Delia."

My heart hammers against my ribs. I bite my lip, pretending to consider it, then nod slowly. "Of course. It's his home too, now."

Two days later, David arrives with a single duffel bag and a cardboard box. He's wearing a worn leather jacket and looks tired, defeated—but not broken. When he thanks me for allowing Ethan to let him stay here, he puts a hand on my shoulder, and that touch alone makes my cunt clench.

I show him to the guest room, which is on the same floor as our bedroom. Down the hall. Two doors away. I point out the bathroom, the towel rack, the extra blankets in the closet. He nods, sets his bag on the bed, and runs a hand through his hair. The gesture exposes the underside of his arm, a thin scar I want to trace with my tongue.

"It's just temporary," he says. "I'll be out of your hair soon."

"Stay as long as you need," I say, and the words come out a little hoarse.

He looks at me then, head tilted, something unreadable flickering in his gaze. For a moment, I think he sees it—the hunger, the desperation, the filth written all over my face. But then he just smiles, that slow crinkle-eyed smile, and says, "You're a good girl. Ethan's lucky."

Now he's here. Every morning I walk to the kitchen in my thin robe and find him drinking coffee at the counter, shirtless sometimes, chest still defined, silver hair dusting his pecs. He reads the newspaper, long legs stretched out, and I have to force myself not to stare at the bulge in his sweatpants.

I start waking up earlier than Ethan. I sit at the table across from David, nursing my own coffee, making small talk while my mind races with fantasies. I imagine dropping to my knees under that table. I imagine pulling down his sweatpants and swallowing his morning wood. I imagine him grabbing me by the hair and fucking my throat while Ethan sleeps upstairs.

At night, I lie next to my husband. Other times I tiptoe out and listen for sounds from the guest room. Sometimes I hear the TV. Sometimes I hear the shower run. And one night, I hear something else: a low, rhythmic groan, barely muffled, followed by the creak of the bed frame.

He's jacking off.

I come back to bed and press my hand between my legs, rubbing through my panties, imagining him thinking of some woman—maybe his wife, maybe some hooker, maybe—maybe me. I imagine his rough hand wrapped around a veiny cock, pumping slowly, his jaw tight, his balls heavy. I imagine him moaning my name.

I come silently, shuddering, burying my face in the pillow so Ethan doesn't hear. Though I think he is deep asleep.

The next day, I find one of David's undershirts in the laundry. It's white, stained with sweat under the arms. I bring it to my face, inhale deep, and feel drunk on his scent. I take it to the bathroom, lock the door, and press it between my legs, grinding against the fabric until I soak through the cotton.

I'm becoming unhinged. I know it. But I can't stop.

Ethan notices I'm more affectionate, more eager in bed. And even sluttier. He thinks I'm just happy to have a full house. He doesn't know I'm fucking him with his father's face burned into my mind, that every time he finishes inside me, I'm wishing it was David's cum painting my walls.

Today, David and I are alone. It's my off day. Ethan went for a meeting. Susan called to say she's looking for a therapist for David. That's her only condition that will make her allow David back home. David sits on the couch, typing something on the laptop. I bring him a beer and sit close—maybe too close. My thigh brushes his.

He doesn't pull away.

He looks at me, long and slow, his eyes traveling down my body, lingering on my breasts beneath the thin tank top. His tongue darts out, wetting his lower lip.

"Thank you," he says, taking the beer. His fingers graze mine.

Every nerve in my body is on fire. I want to climb into his lap. I want to tell him everything—about my father, about the years of passionate nights, about how David makes me feel just as dirty and wanted as it was with Dad. I want to beg him to ruin me.

Instead, I stand up, legs trembling, and say, "Dinner's at seven."

And tonight, after Ethan's asleep and the house is dark, I'll slip my fingers down my cunt. Finger myself with his face in my mind. What is wrong with me?

The next morning the breakfast conversation is Ethan advising David to accept Susans offer. David says he will think about it. After breakfast, Ethan drops me at the office like every morning. He kisses my cheek, tells me to have a good day, and I wave goodbye with a smile. I watch his car disappear around the corner, then I wait three minutes. Five minutes actually. I check my phone, pretend to take a call, then walk to the train station two blocks away.

The ride back is torture. Every stop feels like an eternity. My thighs are pressed together, my panties already damp from the plan hatched during breakfast. David will be leaving anytime now. I know he will accept that offer. And I won't forgive myself if I let him leave our house without trying.

I get off at our station, walk the familiar blocks, but instead of going to the front door, I slip around the side of the house. I have they key to the back gate. Our backyard is small, but privacy is assured by tall fences and overgrown shrubs. I enter through the kitchen door, the one that sticks a little, and I have to jiggle the handle to open it without noise.

The house is silent.

I toe off my flats in the laundry room. My work blouse comes next, then my skirt, my bra, my panties. I fold them neatly—absurdly, given what I'm about to do—and leave them on the washing machine. Naked, I walk down the hallway. My skin prickles with goosebumps, not from cold but from anticipation. My nipples are hard, my cunt already slick, and I can feel the wetness trickling down my inner thigh as I approach his door.

It's slightly ajar. I push it open.

David is sitting on the edge of the bed, in his boxers and an undershirt, typing on his laptop. He looks up when the door swings wider, and his eyes go wide when he sees me—bare, shameless, dripping.

"What the—" He bangs the laptop close and places it on the bedside table.

I don't let him finish. I cross the room in three steps, climb onto his lap, straddle him. His hands hover in the air, uncertain, but his cock is already stirring beneath the cotton of his boxers. I can feel it pressing against my thigh.

"I just need you to fuck me," I say, voice low, desperate.

He looks into my eyes. Really looks. His jaw tightens. "What about my son?"

"I love him." The words come easily, because they're true. I truly love Ethan. "I just have daddy issues. Only you can help with that. "

He chuckles—a low, dark sound that vibrates through his chest. "You mean your dad fucked you, and you liked it. Now because he is away, you want it with me."

I nod. I don't blush. There's no shame left in me, only hunger. I lean in to kiss him.

He kisses back.

For a heartbeat, his lips are soft, hesitant—then they harden, and his hand cups the back of my head, fingers threading through my hair. He pulls me deeper into the kiss, tongue sliding against mine, tasting of coffee and something masculine. I moan into his mouth.

But then he pulls away. His eyes are conflicted, brows drawn together.

"This is wrong," he says, but his voice cracks on the last word.

"I know. I like wrong things." I shift my hips, grinding against his growing erection. "I want your cock, please. Please fuck me."

He holds my gaze for a long, agonizing moment. Then something breaks in him—a dam, a wall, I don't care what—and he kisses me again, passionate, hungry, devouring. His hands slide down my back, grip my ass, squeeze hard enough to bruise.

"Kneel," he orders.

I slide off his lap, drop to my knees on the carpet. He stands, pushes his boxers down, and his cock springs free. It's thick—seven inches, just like Ethan, but fatter. Veins pulse along the shaft, the head flushed dark. My mouth waters.

I take him in my hand first, stroking slowly, feeling the weight of it. Then I lean forward and wrap my lips around the tip. He hisses. I sink lower, taking more, but his girth makes it a challenge. I struggle, gag slightly, saliva pooling as I work my jaw to accommodate him. He watches me, breathing heavy, one hand on the back of my head.

"Look at you," he mutters. "Eager little slut."

I moan around his cock, the vibration making him twitch. I take him deeper, relax my throat, and manage to get most of him in before I have to pull back for air. I repeat the motion, building a rhythm, my hand working what my mouth can't reach.

He lets me for a few minutes, then tugs my hair gently. "Enough. On the bed."

I rise, legs shaky, and lie back on the mattress. He follows, crawling over me, his body a warm, solid weight. He kisses me again—deep, possessive—then trails his mouth down my neck, my collarbone, between my breasts. He takes a nipple into his mouth, sucks hard, and I arch into him, fingers tangling in his salt-and-pepper hair.

His kisses continue lower. Down my stomach, over my navel, to the thatch of hair between my legs. He spreads my thighs with his shoulders, looks at my glistening folds, and I see a flicker of approval in his eyes.

"Wet already," he murmurs. "So hungry for my cock."

Then his mouth is on me.

He licks me slowly at first, savoring, teasing my clit with the flat of his tongue. I gasp, fist the sheets. He laps at my entrance, tasting my arousal, then sucks my clit between his lips. His fingers find my hole, sliding in easily, curling to stroke that spot that makes my vision go white.

I'm already close from weeks of pent-up desire. I buck against his face, moaning incoherently.

Finally, he positions himself between my legs. The head of his cock presses against my opening, not entering yet, just teasing. He looks down at me, eyes dark.

"How did your father fuck you?"

I swallow. "All positions."

A slow smile. "Good. I want to fuck you very hard. "

He pushes in.

I cum immediately—a violent, shuddering orgasm that rips through me, triggered by weeks of wanting, by the forbidden act itself. My inner walls clamp around him, and he groans at the tightness.

"Fuck," he breathes. "You're so fucking tight."

He begins to thrust, slow at first, letting me ride out my climax. His hips rock against mine, each stroke hitting deep. He leans down, nibbles my lower lip, then curses under his breath, fuck she's tight.

"Do you like my son's cock?"

"Yes," I gasp. "Yes, I love it—"

The words send another wave through me. I cum again, coating his shaft with a whitish slick, my body trembling beneath him.

"Does my son make you cum?"

I nod, tears pricking my eyes. "Yes, he does."

"Then why do you want my cock, slut?"

And I confess it, raw and honest. My voice is more of a moan because of the intense pleasure he is giving me: "Because you're like a father to me."

He rams into me hard. The force drives the air from my lungs, and I cry out as he pounds into me, each stroke sending sparks of pleasure through my already oversensitive flesh. He fucks me like he's punishing me, like he's claiming me, and I'm lost in it—a haze of sweat and skin and the smell of him.

I cum again, and again, losing count. My legs wrap around his waist, pulling him deeper.

Finally, I feel his rhythm falter, his breathing ragged. He pulls out—but I grab his ass before he is fully out, fingers digging into his cheeks, and one finger finds his asshole. I press gently, circling, and he groans, his hips stuttering.

I push my finger inside him.

He shouts, a guttural sound, and cums hard—deep inside me, hot and thick. I feel his release painting my walls, and I hold him there, keeping him buried as he throbs and pulses.

When he's done, he collapses on top of me, breathing heavy.

"Fuck," he whispers. "You're on the pill?"

"Yes. Ethan and I aren't ready yet."

He kisses my shoulder. Then he pulls out, grabs a towel from the floor, and cleans me up gently. He lies beside me, pulls me into his arms, and we share a cigarette from the pack on his nightstand.

I take a drag, exhale slowly. The smoke curls between us. It hits me that Ethan doesn't know I smoke. I tinge of guilt hits me. He will hate me if he finds out. But he won't. I will keep my secrets.

"I could get used to this," he says.

"I want you to." I turn to face him, tracing a finger down his chest. "I really want a relationship with you. I want you to be a father figure in my life."

He kisses me, soft and lingering. "I hope you don't mind that I don't see you as my daughter."

"That's okay. With time, you will."

He chuckles, that low rumble again.

"What do you see me as?" I ask.

He looks at me, eyes half-lidded. "You're the slut with very good pussy that my son married. Greedy for cock, and I'm just one of many." He pauses, a knowing smirk. "I'm sure one day you'll be riding your real dad again."

I blush, heat flooding my cheeks. He notices.

"Admit it," he says, and pushes me onto my back. His cock, already hardening again, presses against my thigh.

"Yes," I whisper. "I'm a slut."

He enters me again, and the degradation spills from his lips, and I embrace it. He makes me say it again and again—I'm a slut, I'm a greedy whore, I need daddy's cock—and each admission pushes me closer to the edge. I cum for him over and over, my voice hoarse, my body his.

When he tries to pull out this time, I hold his ass, fingers finding his asshole again, and he cums inside me with a broken moan.

We clean up after. He kisses my forehead, squeezes my hand. I dress quickly, slip out the back door, and catch the next train back to work.

My phone buzzes. A text from Ethan: Hope your day is going well. Love you.

I type back: Love you too. Can't wait to see you tonight.

And I mean it. I do love Ethan, just that I love other things too.