Healing my paralyzed daughter

CHAPTER 1

The silence in the room was thicker than the oil pooling in the ceramic dish on the nightstand. Marcus stood beside the bed, his hands trembling as he unscrewed the cap of the small bottle the doctor had given him. The label read Psychotropic Neural Stimulant – Topical Use Only in sterile black type. Beside it lay a clean white sheet, folded neatly. His daughter, Elena, lay on her back on the hospital bed the insurance had provided, her eyes fixed on the ceiling.

“You sure about this, Ellie?” His voice cracked. He’d called her Ellie since she was a toddler, back when she’d run into his arms after soccer practice, all sweat and smiles. Now she couldn’t even scratch her own nose.

“Dad.” Her voice was soft, tired, but firm. “We already talked about this. The doctor said it’s our best shot. And we can’t afford the physical therapist anyway. You’re already doing everything else.”

“That’s different. That’s… cleaning, turning you, feeding you. This is—” He gestured vaguely at the oil, at her body under the thin sheet.

“I know what it is.” She closed her eyes for a long moment. “I can’t feel anything anyway. It’s just a massage. You’ve seen me naked a hundred times.”

Not like this, he thought. Not with my hands slick with oil, touching every inch of you on purpose. But he didn’t say it. He couldn’t.

CHAPTER 2

He started with the sheet. Slowly, he peeled it down from her shoulders, revealing her athletic frame. The car accident had taken her movement, but not her muscle tone. Her shoulders were rounded and strong, her collarbones pronounced. Her breasts sat high on her chest—full B-cups with pale nipples that had never seen a tan line. He’d seen them before, of course, when the nurse washed her, but always from a distance, always with clinical detachment. Now they were right there, inches from his fingers, soft and vulnerable.

He poured a generous amount of oil into his palm. It was warm from the bottle, slightly viscous, with a faint herbal scent—something between eucalyptus and lavender, but sharper, almost chemical. He rubbed his hands together and pressed them to her left shoulder.

The moment his skin touched hers, a jolt went through him. Not static electricity—something deeper. He felt the heat of her body, the slight give of her flesh. She didn’t react. Her face remained still, eyes on the ceiling.

“I’m going to start with your arms and chest, then move down,” he said, more to break the silence than anything.

“Okay.”

He worked his thumbs into the muscle of her shoulder, circling outward. Her skin was smooth, warm, oiled now. His hands slid easily across her. He moved to her upper arm, then her forearm, then her wrist. He lifted her hand—limp, lifeless—and massaged each finger individually, pressing the pads of his thumbs into her palm. Nothing. No twitch, no sigh.

He moved to her right arm, repeating the process. Then he hesitated at her chest. The doctor had said systemic and thorough, meaning he couldn’t skip any part. He swallowed hard and cupped his hand over her left breast.

Her breath hitched for a second, then steadied.

He tried to be clinical. He pressed the flat of his hand against the curve, spreading oil in slow, firm circles. The flesh yielded under his touch. Her nipple stiffened against his palm—just a reflex, he told himself. A physical response, not voluntary. But it still made his cock twitch in his jeans.

Focus.

He moved to her right breast, giving it the same treatment. Then down to her stomach. He traced the hard ridges of her abs—she’d been a gymnast before the accident, a state champion. The muscles were still defined, even though they never contracted anymore. He circled her navel, slicked oil across her entire midsection, then paused just above her pubic mound.

Her pubic hair was trimmed short, neatly, the nurses did that every week. The dark triangle was stark against her pale skin. He could see the lips of her labia beneath the edge of the hair, slightly parted.

He poured more oil into his palm. His hands shook as he pressed them to the top of her mons, spreading it downward, covering the entire area. He felt her pubic bone beneath the thin layer of flesh, the slight give of her vulva as his fingers passed over it. He didn’t linger—he couldn’t—but he had to be thorough. He worked his way down her hips, then her thighs. Her thighs were thick, powerful, the kind of legs that had once launched her over a vaulting horse. Now they lay inert, heavy in his hands.

He massaged each thigh in long, flowing strokes. He lifted her left leg slightly, oiling the back of it, then the right. Her calves. Her feet. Her toes.

“Do you feel anything?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

“No,” she said. But her voice was distant, dreamy. “Keep going.”

He turned her over carefully, using the sheet to roll her onto her stomach. Her back was a landscape of muscle and bone—broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist. He poured oil directly onto her spine and spread it across her shoulder blades, down her sides, over her kidneys. He worked his hands into her lower back, pressing firmly, feeling the tension in muscles that never relaxed.

Then he moved to her ass. He couldn’t avoid it. The globes were full and firm, the kind of ass that had once filled out her leotard perfectly. Now they were bare, oil-slick, waiting. He cupped each cheek in his hands and kneaded them, squeezing gently, spreading the oil up into the cleft. His thumb brushed against her anus accidentally; he jerked back, then forced himself to continue. He had to be thorough.

His cock was painfully hard now. He’d been fighting it for the last twenty minutes, but there was no hiding it. His jeans were tented, the fabric stretched tight. He twisted his hips to angle it away, but that only made it worse. When he finished with her back and legs, he flipped her onto her back again.

That’s when she saw it.

Her eyes, previously glassy and half-closed, widened. She looked directly at the bulge in his pants. Their eyes met. The room went silent except for the hum of the air conditioner.

“I’m sorry, honey,” he said, his face burning. “I—I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s okay,” she said quickly, looking away. “It’s a physical response. The doctor said the oil can affect the masseuse too. It’s fine.”

But it wasn’t fine. They both knew it. He finished by covering her face, neck, and scalp with oil, his fingers trembling. When he was done, he wiped his hands on a towel and pulled the sheet up to her chin.

“Did you feel anything at all?” he asked, desperate to change the subject.

“No,” she said. But then she paused. “Actually… I feel kind of… tingly. And warm. Like I’m floating.”

“That’s the psychotropic effect,” he said, remembering the doctor’s warning. “It can cause mild hallucinations or euphoria. It’s normal.”

“It feels good,” she said softly. “Thank you, Dad. For doing this.”

He nodded, unable to speak. He left the room as quickly as he could, his erection still throbbing.

CHAPTER 2

That night, he lay in his own bed, staring at the ceiling. The image of her—naked, oiled, vulnerable—was burned into his mind. Her breasts. The curve of her ass. The dark triangle between her legs. The way her nipple had hardened under his palm.

He tried to think of something else. He tried to think of the accident, the screaming metal, his wife’s body twisted in the passenger seat. He tried to think of Elena’s tears, her despair, the months of bedpans and sponge baths and silent sobs.

None of it worked.

His hand moved down his stomach. He was already hard, achingly so. He wrapped his fingers around his cock and imagined her. Not the paralyzed version—the old Elena, the gymnast, the girl who could bend and twist and stretch. But that memory faded, replaced by the reality of tonight: her still body, her parted lips, the oil glistening on her skin.

He stroked himself slowly, guilt and arousal warring in his chest. He pictured her face when she saw his erection—the brief flash of shock, then understanding. He pictured her letting him touch her again tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that.

He came with a choked groan, his semen spilling across his stomach. The guilt hit him immediately, cold and sharp. He cleaned up mechanically, then lay back down, staring at the ceiling.

Tomorrow he would do it again. And he hated himself for how much he was looking forward to it.

CHAPTER 4

Marcus woke up with a hollow ache in his chest and a throbbing between his legs. The guilt from last night sat like a stone in his stomach, but the memory of her oiled body, her stillness, her quiet acceptance—it burned brighter than any shame. He pulled on a loose gym shirt and a pair of worn workout shorts, hoping the baggy fabric would hide any... reactions.

He walked into her room. Elena was already awake, her head turned slightly toward the window. The morning light caught her face, and for the first time in months, she looked almost peaceful.

“Morning, Ellie.”

“Morning, Dad.” Her voice was stronger today. “I was thinking... the doctor said we should be thorough. Can you use extra oil today? And take your time? I want this to work.”

“Of course.” His voice cracked. “Whatever you need.”

He prepared the oil, pouring twice as much into the dish. The herbal chemical scent filled the room. He pulled the sheet down slowly, exposing her naked body. She didn’t flinch.

He started at her shoulders, but his hands betrayed him almost immediately. He spent longer on her breasts than he needed to—circling the areolas, letting his thumbs brush her nipples until they pebbled hard against his fingers. She didn't say anything, but her breathing quickened slightly.

He moved down to her stomach, then her mons. He poured extra oil directly onto her pubic area, watching it pool in the trimmed hair. He spread it with flat palms, but his thumbs drifted lower. They slipped between her labia, parting them. He saw her clit—small, pink, hidden beneath its hood—and his cock surged against his shorts. He pressed his thumbs into the slick folds, spreading the oil, feeling the heat radiating from her cunt.

He turned her over. Her ass cheeks were full and firm. He spread them deliberately, pouring oil directly into her crack. His thumbs rubbed her asshole in slow circles, pressing just enough to feel the tight ring of muscle. She made a soft sound—not pain, not pleasure, just acknowledgment. Her body responded with a faint flush across her skin.

When he flipped her back, his gym shirt and shorts were spotted with oil. She laughed—a real laugh, the first he’d heard in two years.

“Dad, you’re covered in oil again,” she said, her voice dreamy and slurred from the psychotropic effect.

He looked down at the stains and grinned despite himself. “Guess I’m not very good at this.”

“You’re doing great,” she said, her eyes glassy. “Keep going.”

He finished the massage, his erection impossible to hide. She didn’t mention it this time. When he was done, he cleaned her gently, then left the room.

That night, he jerked off in the shower, imagining her parted lips, her wet cunt, the way her asshole had clenched under his thumb. He came with a groan that echoed off the tiles.

CHAPTER 5

Marcus stood at the foot of her bed, holding the bottle of oil. He’d worn some old ratty clothes, but before he could even set the bottle down, Elena spoke.

“Dad, take your clothes off. You’re ruining them with the oil.”

He froze. “Ellie, I don’t think—”

“It’s fine. You’re wearing boxers, right? That’s enough. I don’t care. Just... do the massage.”

He hesitated, then stripped off his shirt and shorts. Standing in his boxers, he felt exposed and painfully aware of his body. But she was looking at the ceiling, not at him.

He poured the oil and began. The first few minutes were routine—shoulders, arms, chest. But when he reached her lower belly, she yelped.

“Wait! I felt something!”

His heart stopped. “What? Where?”

“I don’t know—it was like a tingle. Just for a second. Do that area again.”

He pressed his palm against her lower abdomen, just above her mons. He rubbed in slow circles. Nothing.

“Try lower,” she said, her voice urgent.

He moved his hand down, over the trimmed hair, until his fingers rested on the damp heat of her pussy lips. He pressed gently, and she gasped.

“There! Rub there, Daddy.”

The word hit him like a punch. She’d never called him that in this context. He swallowed hard.

“Ellie, that’s your... that’s your pussy lips.”

“I don’t care. I can feel something for the first time in two years. Daddy, please rub it like the doctor said.”

His hand moved. He spread the oil over her labia, using his fingertips to part them, circling her clit without touching it directly. Her hips twitched—a tiny movement, barely perceptible, but it was movement. His cock swelled in his boxers, pressing against the cotton.

He rubbed her inner thighs, her lower belly, then her pussy lips again. Her clit was visible now, swollen and pink. He let his thumb brush across it, and her whole body shuddered.

“Fuck,” she breathed.

He looked down. Her pussy was wet—glistening with oil and her own arousal. He kept rubbing, his thumb pressing circles around her clit, watching her face. Her eyes were half-closed, her lips parted.

“Keep going,” she whispered.

But the time was up. He’d spent too long on that area. Reluctantly, he pulled his hand away and finished the rest of her body quickly. When he was done, he stood to clean her, and his cock jutted out obscenely from his boxers, a visible tent.

"Dad," she said quietly, "can I see it?"

"What?"

"Your... you know. I've never seen one in real life."

He should have said no. He should have walked out. But his hand moved to the waistband of his boxers, and he pulled them down. His cock sprang free—hard, thick, flushed dark with blood.

"Wow," she said, her eyes wide. "I guess I understand what all the fuss is about."

He stood there, frozen, his cock in his hand. Unconsciously, he stroked it once, twice. A drop of pre-cum beaded at the tip and fell, splashing on the hardwood floor.

She licked her lips.

"That's enough," he said, his voice ragged. He pulled his boxers up and left the room.

He didn't even make it to the bathroom. He dropped to his knees in the hallway, yanked his cock out, and came in violent spurts, imagining her tongue, her lips, the way she'd said Daddy.

CHAPTER 6

Marcus called Dr. Chen first thing in the morning, his voice shaking with a mix of hope and dread.

"She felt something, Doctor. A tingle. In her... pelvic area."

The doctor's voice was measured but warm. "That's promising, Marcus. Very promising. The nerve pathways might be regenerating. Continue the massages daily—focus on the areas where she feels sensation. I understand this is awkward, but it's the best thing you can do for her recovery right now."

"Thank you, Doctor."

"Keep me updated."

He hung up and walked to Elena's room. She was already smiling, her head turning more easily toward him.

"Did you tell her?"

"Yeah. She said to keep going."

"Good." Her eyes sparkled. "I've been thinking about it all night. I actually look forward to our sessions now."

Marcus's chest tightened. He prepared the oil, stripping down to his boxers without being asked this time. His cock was already half-hard, betraying him.

CHAPTER 7

He started at her shoulders, but his hands drifted south faster than usual. He spent extra time on her breasts—palming them, circling her nipples with oiled thumbs until they stood erect and dark. She gasped.

"I felt that. In my nipples. A tingle."

"Good," he breathed, and kept rubbing.

He moved to her mons, then hesitated. "Ellie, the bed has some features. I can adjust it to spread your legs and hold them up. It might help... access."

"Do it."

He pressed a button. The lower half of the bed split, raising her thighs and parting them, exposing her completely. Her pussy was already glistening with oil, her labia pink and swollen.

He poured more oil into his palms and rubbed her inner thighs, then her pussy lips, spreading them wide. Her clit was fully exposed now, engorged. He pressed his thumb against it in slow, firm circles.

She moaned—a low, throaty sound that shot straight to his groin.

"Fuck, Daddy. Keep going."

He rubbed her clit harder, then slid two fingers into her pussy. She was wet—slick, hot, welcoming. Her hips twitched. He pumped his fingers in and out, then added a third, stretching her. Her moans grew louder.

He pulled his fingers out and moved to her asshole, pressing his thumb against the tight ring. She gasped but didn't tell him to stop. He rubbed the oil into her crack, dipping his thumb inside just enough to feel her sphincter clench.

"Daddy—I'm—something's happening—"

Her hips bucked. Her inner walls clamped down on nothing. A wave of pleasure—her first orgasm—ripped through her paralyzed body. Her back arched, her mouth opened in a silent cry, and then she yelped.

"Oh—oh fuck—Daddy, I—"

Her body shuddered, then stilled. Her pussy was dripping, her clit pulsing.

She lay there, panting, her eyes wide. "I came. I actually came."

Marcus was rock hard, his boxers soaked with pre-cum. He couldn't speak.

She turned her head to look at him, her gaze dropping to the tent in his shorts. "It's your turn, Daddy."

"What? No, Ellie, I—"

"You can look at me while you do it. But I want to watch."

"I shouldn't. This is already—"

"Well, then I guess we'll have to get a nurse. A professional. Someone who won't have these weird boundaries."

The threat hit like ice water. He couldn't afford a nurse. And the thought of someone else touching her, seeing her like this—it made him sick.

"Fine."

His voice was barely a whisper. He raised the head of the bed so she could see clearly. Then he knelt between her spread legs, facing her. He grabbed the bottle of oil and poured it over his cock. The warm, herbal liquid coated his shaft, and immediately he felt the psychotropic effect—a lightheadedness, a floatiness. He hadn't realized the oil could affect him through his skin.

He started stroking. Slow at first, then faster. Elena watched, her lips parted, her eyes tracking every motion.

"Yes, Daddy. Cum on me."

He couldn't hold back. His orgasm built like a wave, crashed over him. He groaned, hips thrusting forward, and ropes of hot cum arced through the air, splashing across her stomach, her breasts, her pussy. One drop landed on her clit, and she shivered.

He collapsed forward, bracing himself on the bed, breathing hard.

She looked down at the white streaks painting her body. "I can feel it. It's warm."

He climbed off the bed, his legs shaky. He walked to her head, leaned down, and kissed her forehead.

Her lips reached up. She caught his mouth with hers—a soft, tentative kiss. He felt her tongue brush against his, just once, before she pulled back.

"Thank you, Daddy."

He straightened, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and left the room without a word.

That night, he lay in his cold bed, replaying the kiss, the feel of her tongue, the sight of his cum dripping down her pussy. He didn't need to jerk off. He was already spent. But he didn't sleep either.

CHAPTER 8

Marcus woke with a headache and a hard-on. The memory of yesterday—the kiss, the taste of her tongue, the sight of his cum cooling on her skin—was burned into his brain. He should feel shame. He did feel shame. But underneath it, coiled tight in his gut, was hunger.

He shuffled to her room. She was already awake, her eyes bright, her head turning fully toward him now.

"Morning, Daddy."

"Morning, Ellie."

He stripped without being told. The oil was warm in his hands. He started at her shoulders, working down her arms, her torso, her hips. But his hands lingered where they shouldn't.

"Massage my pussy, Daddy."

Her voice was calm, commanding. A request that wasn't a request.

He obeyed. He spread her legs with the bed controls, oiled his fingers, and parted her labia. She was already slick. He circled her clit with his thumb, pushed two fingers inside, felt the heat of her.

"Can you feel this?" He ducked his head down, his tongue darting out to lick her clit.

She breathed in sharply. "I—I can't tell what that is. But I like it."

He did it again. Longer this time. He pressed his mouth against her, licking from her perineum up to her clit, swirling his tongue around the hood. Her hips twitched.

"I like that. Whatever it is. Don't stop."

He didn't. He licked her pussy like a man starved, lapping up her juices and the oil mixed together. She moaned, her hands clenching the sheets.

He stood up, hooked his thumbs into his underwear, and pulled them off. His cock sprang free, thick and leaking. He poured oil into his palm and stroked himself, coating his entire shaft, his balls, even reaching back to smear oil over his asshole. The psychotropic effect hit him instantly—a warm buzz spreading through his skull, softening the edges of guilt.

He knelt between her legs. He pushed a finger into her pussy, and she screamed.

"Yes—fuck, Daddy—yes—"

He added a second finger. Then a third. She was so wet, so tight. He pushed his thumb against her asshole, pressing just inside the tight ring. Her back arched.

"I'm gonna cum—Daddy, I'm—"

He watched her face contort, her mouth open, her eyes rolled back. And then he saw it—her fingers twitching. Small, involuntary movements. Her body was building connections, rewiring itself.

She came with a guttural cry, her pussy squeezing his fingers, her thighs trembling. He kept his thumb pressed inside her ass until her orgasm subsided.

She lay there, panting, her skin glistening with sweat and oil. Her eyes found his.

"Daddy... would you fuck me, please?"

The words hung in the air. His cock throbbed.

"Ellie, you're a virgin."

"I don't care, Daddy." She licked her lips. "Please. I feel so good. I want to feel you inside me."

He shook his head, but his body didn't move.

"Daddy, please. I've wanted this for so long. Even before the accident, I used to dream about it."

His breath caught. "What?"

"Please. Fuck me. Make me feel whole."

He looked at her—his daughter, paralyzed, vulnerable, begging. The oil had him floating, his resistance crumbling.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, Daddy. I've never been more sure of anything."

He crawled up her body, his cock dragging through the oil on her stomach. He stopped at her chest, took one last lap at her pussy—tasting himself on her—then kissed his way up her stomach, her ribs, her breasts. He sucked her nipples, first one, then the other, while she moaned and ran her fingers through his hair.

Then he was between her thighs. His cock rested against her wet slit, sliding up and down, coating himself in her arousal.

He looked into her eyes. She nodded.

He pushed inside.

Her hymen broke with a small pop, a thin trickle of blood mixing with the oil. She gasped, her nails digging into his shoulders.

"Does it hurt?"

"Only a little. Keep going."

He thrust deeper, seating himself fully inside her. She was tight—so impossibly tight—and hot. Her pussy gripped him like a fist.

He began to move. Slow at first, then faster. He took her hands, moved them over her head, and rubbed his oily palms against hers. Their fingers intertwined, slippery and warm.

"Yes, Daddy—I love this—it feels so good—"

He fucked her. Their bodies slapped together, skin on skin, wet and rhythmic. Sweat and oil made them shine. Her legs were still spread wide by the bed, her hips lifting to meet his thrusts.

"I never thought I would feel this," she whispered. "I wanted it for so long."

The words broke something in him. He thrust harder, deeper, driven by two years of guilt and isolation and longing. Her pussy squeezed him with every stroke, her inner walls milking him.

"I'm gonna cum, Ellie—"

"Cum inside me, Daddy. Please. Fill me up."

He buried himself to the hilt and let go. Hot cum pulsed into her, wave after wave. She came with him, her body convulsing, her legs trying to close around him. The psychotropic oil amplified everything—colors blazed behind his eyelids, euphoria flooded his veins. They held each other, trembling, as the aftershocks rolled through them.

He collapsed on top of her, his face buried in her neck. She stroked his back.

"Thank you, Daddy."

They lay like that until the oil dried on their skin, until the high faded into a warm, drowsy contentment.

CHAPTER 9

The Doctor's Visit

The next morning, Marcus helped Elena into her wheelchair for the first time in weeks. Her arms were stronger. She could grip the armrests, adjust her position. It was small progress, but it was progress.

At the hospital, Dr. Chen ran a series of tests. She checked Elena's reflexes, her muscle response, her ability to feel pinpricks on her thighs and calves.

"This is remarkable," Dr. Chen said, reviewing the scans. "The nerve regeneration is accelerating. I've never seen progress this fast in a spinal cord injury patient."

Elena squeezed Marcus's hand.

"Whatever you're doing at home," Dr. Chen continued, "keep it up. The oil, the massages—it's clearly working. I'd suggest increasing the frequency if you can. Twice a day, perhaps."

Marcus felt his face flush. Elena smiled.

"We'll do that, Doctor. Thank you."

They drove home in silence. But when they got inside, Elena looked at him with hungry eyes.

"Well, Daddy? You heard the doctor. Twice a day."

EPILOGUE: One Year Later

The summer light streamed through the living room windows, catching dust motes in lazy spirals. Marcus was reading—or pretending to read—when he heard her footsteps. No wheelchair creak. No cane tap. Just the soft pad of bare feet on hardwood.

Elena appeared in the doorway wearing a white sundress. Thin cotton. The kind that leaves nothing to the imagination when the sun hits it right.

And right now, the sun was hitting it exactly right.

He could see the outline of her thighs, the dark triangle between her legs, the hard nubs of her nipples pressing against the fabric. She'd let her hair grow long. It brushed her shoulders now.

"Hey, Daddy."

Her voice was steady. Confident. A far cry from the broken girl who'd lain in that hospital bed.

"Hey, baby."

She walked toward him—no cane today, just a slight drag in her left foot that only he would notice. In her hand, she held a familiar bottle.

The oil.

"Time for our massage, Daddy."

She didn't wait for his answer. She reached behind her neck, pulled the tie, and let the sundress fall. It pooled at her feet, leaving her naked. Her body was fuller now—muscle tone returned, curves softened. Her breasts were heavier, her hips wider.

Marcus smiled. He untied his robe and let it hang open. His cock was already stiffening, rising from its nest of gray-streaked pubic hair.

Elena dropped to her knees in front of him. No hesitation. She wrapped her fingers around his shaft—warm, familiar—and leaned forward. Her tongue darted out, licking his balls. She cupped each one, rolling them gently, tracing the sensitive skin behind them.

"Fuck, Ellie..."

She kissed her way up his shaft, her lips dragging along the underside vein. Then she opened her mouth and took him deep—all the way to the back of her throat. She held it there, her nose pressed against his pubic bone, her throat muscles contracting around the head.

He groaned and poured oil into his palm while she worked him. He coated his chest, his stomach, his thighs. She pulled off, gasping, and reached for the bottle. She poured a generous amount into her hands and spread it over his cock, his balls, his ass. Then she climbed into his lap, straddling him.

He took the oil and rubbed it over her tits, her belly, her legs. The familiar warmth bloomed between them—the psychotropic haze that blurred the line between right and wrong, that made everything feel electric and inevitable.

She moaned as the effect hit her. Her pupils dilated.

And then he noticed.

Her belly was slightly firmer. A gentle roundness he hadn't felt before.

He looked into her eyes. She was smiling, a mischievous glint. She reached behind her back and pulled out a small white plastic stick.

Two pink lines.

"Surprise, Daddy."

She handed it to him, and as he took it, she lowered herself onto his cock. The oil made it easy—she sank down in one smooth motion, her pussy gripping him, hot and wet and home.

He gasped. She began to ride him, slow and deep, her hands braced on his shoulders, her eyes locked with his.

"I couldn't think of a better person to raise a child with," she whispered.

His hands found her hips. Their oily bodies writhed together, skin sliding against skin, the scent of lavender and sex filling the room. The pregnancy test sat on the armrest, watching them.

He thrust up into her, and she rode him harder, her breath coming in short gasps. The high from the oil wrapped around them both—euphoria, connection, a love that defied every rule.

"I love you, Ellie."

"I love you too, Daddy."

She came first, her back arching, her cunt milking him. He followed a moment later, spilling deep inside her, holding her close as the world narrowed to the pulse between her thighs and the child growing in her belly.

Afterward, they lay tangled on the couch, still slick with oil, the sun warming their cooling skin.

She rested her hand on her stomach. "What should we name her?"

Marcus kissed her forehead. "Whatever you want, baby. Whatever you want."