Daddy's Forever Love

A husband scorned by his wife's betrayal and the enduring love of his daughter.

The house had never felt so hollow. Three days since I'd thrown her mother’s bags onto the driveway, three days since the truth had spilled out like wine from a shattered bottle—late nights at the office that weren't late nights, text messages that weren't about work, a betrayal that had festered for nearly two years. The silence now was deafening. I sat in my study, a glass of scotch sweating in my hand, staring at the wall where our wedding photo used to hang. I'd taken it down. Couldn't bear the lie of it.

The front door opened around nine o'clock. I didn't move. Probably just the wind, or perhaps I'd finally lost my mind and was hallucinating the sound of life returning to this mausoleum.

"Daddy?"

The voice stopped my heart. Not *Dad*—she hadn't called me that in years, not since she'd left for college at eighteen, not since she'd decided that *Dad* was too childish, or sometimes nothing at all, just a careful distance that daughters create when they become women. But now, standing in the doorway of my study, twenty years old and somehow both fully grown and the little girl I'd raised from birth, Sarah said it again.

"Daddy?"

She was supposed to be in Chicago. She was supposed to be finishing her sophomore year, supposed to be interning at that architecture firm, supposed to be anywhere but here, witnessing the wreckage of a marriage she'd been born into.

"Sarah." My voice came out rough, scraped raw by whiskey and three days of not speaking. "What are you doing here?"

She stepped into the light, and I saw what the years had done to her. She'd grown into a woman when I wasn't looking—standing nearly five-foot-nine with a softness to her frame that hadn't been there before, a plushness that came with her one-hundred-thirty-pound figure. Her dark chestnut hair fell in waves to her shoulders, framing a face that could have been painted by Renaissance masters. Those big blue doe-like eyes caught the lamplight, wide and luminous above her cute little nose and soft, full lips that trembled slightly as she took me in. But it was her body that made me acutely aware that I was a forty-six-year-old man sitting alone in a dark room with a woman who was no longer a child. The sundress she wore strained against her chest, and I could see the heavy swell of her breasts—massive 44E cups that sat high and proud on her chest, defying gravity with their youthful firmness, the fabric barely containing their plush weight.

"Mom called me," she said quietly, setting her bag down. "She told me you two split up. She made it sound like it was mutual. Like you'd grown apart."

I laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Mutual. That's one word for it."

Sarah crossed the room, and I smelled her perfume—something light, vanilla and jasmine, mixed with the scent of travel and summer heat. She sat on the arm of my chair, her thigh brushing my shoulder, and I felt the contact like electricity. Inappropriate. Wrong. But my body didn't care about propriety right now. It only cared that she was warm and close and looking at me with an expression that held no judgment, only a deep, oceanic sadness.

"She didn't tell me she cheated," Sarah said. "I found out from Aunt Lisa. Mom's been bragging about it, Daddy. Like it was some... some adventure. Like you were just..."

"I was just in the way," I finished, taking another drink. "Twenty-six years of marriage. She wanted someone who didn't have gray at his temples. Someone who could keep up with her at those corporate parties."

Sarah's hand found my shoulder. Her fingers were slender, warm, pressing into the tension there with an intimacy that made me freeze.

"Look at me," she said.

I turned. Her face was inches from mine, those big blue eyes pools of liquid emotion, and I saw the determination in them, the way her soft lips parted with something that looked like resolve.

"You were never in the way," she said. "You were the only reason I survived childhood. You taught me to ride a bike when Mom was too busy. You stayed up with me when I had nightmares. You came to every recital, every parent-teacher conference, every stupid award ceremony. She was never there. You were."

"Sarah..."

"And now she's destroyed you," she continued, her voice dropping to a whisper. "I can see it. You're broken. And I can't... I can't stand seeing you like this."

Her hand moved from my shoulder to my cheek. The touch was tender, exploratory, and I felt myself lean into it before my mind could scream *stop*.

"You're drunk," I said, but it was half-hearted. I wasn't drunk. I'd had two glasses over four hours. I was sober enough to know this was wrong, sober enough to feel the heat building between us, sober enough to notice the way her dress gaped slightly at the neckline, revealing the deep valley between her massive breasts.

"I'm not drunk," she said. "I'm here. And I want to be here. I've wanted to be here for two years, Daddy. Since before I left."

The confession hung in the air like smoke.

"I don't understand," I lied. I understood perfectly. I'd understood every time she'd lingered too long in a hug, every time she'd worn those tiny shorts around the house during her last summer home, every time I'd caught her looking at me with an expression that daughters shouldn't have for fathers.

"I know you saw it," she whispered. "I know you felt it too. The way you'd look away when I came out of the shower. The way you'd leave the room when I was in my bikini. You felt it."

"You're my daughter," I said, the words tasting like ash. "I raised you. I changed your diapers. I taught you how to drive."

"And now I'm twenty," she said. "And I'm not asking you to raise me anymore. I'm asking you to let me... let me give you something. Let me make this right. Let me love you the way she wouldn't."

She stood, and I thought she might leave, might realize the insanity of what she was proposing. But instead, she reached behind her back, and I heard the zipper of her dress descend like a whisper. The fabric pooled at her feet, and she stood before me in nothing but a white lace bra that struggled to contain her enormous breasts and matching panties that sat high on her plush hips. Her body was a masterpiece of soft curves—the gentle swell of her belly, the thick thighs that rubbed together, and between her legs, I could see the outline of her sex, smooth and bare except for a small tuft of dark chestnut hair just above her mound, a landing strip that pointed the way to heaven.

"Daddy," she whispered, her big blue eyes wide and vulnerable. "I've never done this. I've never... anyone. I was waiting. I told myself I was waiting for the right person, the right time. But I was waiting for you. I just didn't know I was allowed to want it."

She stepped forward, between my knees, and took my hands. She placed them on her waist, and her skin was furnace-hot, soft and yielding under my touch. I could feel the subtle tremor running through her, the rapid beat of her pulse.

"Tell me to stop," she said, "and I will. I'll put my dress on and I'll sleep in the guest room and tomorrow I'll go back to Chicago and we'll never speak of this. But if you don't tell me to stop..."

I looked up at her. At the girl I'd driven to her first day of kindergarten. At the woman who was offering me the most precious thing she possessed. At the person who saw me—not as a failed husband, not as a cuckolded fool, but as someone worthy of worship.

I didn't tell her to stop.

I stood, and my hands slid up her ribs, thumbs brushing the underside of her massive breasts, and she gasped, her head falling back, her chestnut hair cascading over her shoulders, exposing the long column of her throat. I kissed her there, at the hollow where her pulse hammered, and she moaned, a sound that went straight to my groin, making me hard and aching against my zipper.

"Are you sure?" I asked against her soft skin, giving her one last chance to run.

"Please," she begged, her hands fumbling at my belt. "Please, Daddy. I need you inside me. I need you to be my first. I need..."

I captured her mouth with mine, and the kiss was devastating. She was inexperienced, her teeth clicking against mine, her tongue tentative, but she learned quickly, melting into me with a desperation that matched my own. I walked her backward toward the leather couch, laying her down like an offering, and she watched with wide, hungry eyes as I stripped off my shirt, then my pants, then my boxers, standing before her naked and fully erect at forty-six, my cock thick and veined, heavy with need, pre-cum already beading at the tip.

Her eyes widened, those big blue doe eyes going impossibly wider. "You're... bigger than I thought, Daddy."

"Last chance," I rasped, kneeling between her thick, plush thighs.

She reached down, her small hand wrapping around my shaft, and the contact made me groan. "I want it," she said, stroking me with clumsy enthusiasm. "I want all of it. I want to feel you everywhere."

I removed her bra, freeing her massive 44E breasts, and they spilled out heavy and perfect, rose-colored areolas the size of saucers, nipples hard and pointing upward. I took one into my mouth, sucking hard enough to make her cry out, her back arching off the couch, her chestnut hair spilling across the leather. I lavished attention on both breasts, burying my face in their soft warmth, until she was writhing, then kissed my way down her soft belly, hooking my fingers into her panties and dragging them down her thick thighs.

She was bare beneath, smooth as silk except for that little tuft of hair just above her slit, and when I spread her thighs, I saw the glistening evidence of her arousal coating her folds. She was pink, untouched, her hymen visible, her entrance small and tight. The sight of her virgin cunt made my cock twitch, pre-cum beading at the tip.

"Beautiful," I murmured, and then I lowered my mouth to her.

The sound she made was inhuman, a high, keening wail as my tongue traced her slit, tasting her sweetness, her innocence. I found her clit, swollen and sensitive, and sucked it gently, flicking it with the tip of my tongue while I pressed one thick finger against her entrance, feeling the resistance there, the tightness that would soon be mine.

"Oh god, oh god, Daddy, please, I can't... it's too much..."

I didn't stop. I ate her with abandon, thrusting my tongue into her virgin hole, feeling her flutter around me, her hands gripping my graying hair hard enough to hurt. When I added a second finger, stretching her, preparing her for what was to come, she shattered, her first orgasm ripping through her with violent force, her thick thighs clamping around my head, her cry echoing off the study walls.

I rose over her, positioning my thick cock at her entrance. Her eyes were glazed, her chest heaving, her massive breasts flushed and heaving, her body limp and pliant.

"This will hurt," I warned her. "Just for a moment. I'll go slow."

"I don't care," she panted, reaching up to touch my face, her soft lips parted. "I want the hurt. I want to feel you breaking me open. I want to remember this forever."

I pushed forward, the thick head of my cock breaching her tight entrance, and she gasped, her nails digging into my shoulders. She was impossibly tight, a hot, wet vice gripping me, and I had to fight the urge to thrust hard, to bury myself to the hilt in my daughter's virgin cunt.

"Breathe," I coached her, kissing her tears as they spilled from the corners of her big blue eyes. "Relax, baby girl. Let Daddy in."

"You're so big," she whimpered, her plush body trembling beneath me. "I feel so full already and you're not even..."

I pushed deeper, feeling the resistance give way, feeling the moment I tore through her hymen, and she cried out, a sharp sound of pain that morphed into something else as I held still, letting her adjust, showering her soft lips with kisses.

"Move," she whispered after a moment. "Please, Daddy. Move."

I withdrew slowly, watching my cock emerge slick with her virgin blood and arousal, then pushed back in, deeper this time, until I was seated fully inside her, my balls resting against her ass, my pubic bone grinding against her sensitive clit.

"Sarah," I groaned, resting my forehead against hers. "You feel... you feel like heaven, baby."

She wrapped her thick legs around my waist, locking her ankles, and I began to move in earnest. The couch creaked beneath us, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room, mingled with her gasps and my grunts. She was so tight, so hot, her inner muscles fluttering around me with every thrust, trying to draw me deeper into her fertile womb.

"Harder," she begged, her big blue eyes rolling back. "Please, harder. I want to feel you tomorrow. I want to ache, Daddy."

I lost control then. I fucked her with the pent-up rage of a man scorned, with the desperate hunger of a man starved for affection, with the possessive fury of a father claiming his daughter. I pounded into her, angling my hips to hit that spot inside her that made her scream, and she met me thrust for thrust, her plush hips bucking, her massive 44E breasts bouncing with the force of our coupling.

"Touch yourself," I commanded, and she obeyed, her hand sliding between us to rub frantic circles over her clit. "That's it, baby. Come for Daddy. Come on my cock."

"Daddy, I'm... I'm going to... oh god, oh god!"

She came with a shriek, her body convulsing, her cunt clamping down on me with rhythmic pulses that milked my own release from me. I buried myself as deep as I could, my cock swelling, and then I was flooding her, pulse after pulse of hot seed spilling into her unprotected womb, marking her, claiming her, breeding my own daughter.

The thought should have terrified me. I was forty-six, she was twenty, and I was coming inside her virgin pussy with no barrier, no protection, filling her with the potency of my middle-aged virility. But as I looked down at her, at her flushed face and dazed big blue eyes, at the way she was smiling up at me with absolute adoration, her soft lips curved in bliss, I felt only a primal satisfaction.

"Did you..." she asked, her voice hoarse.

"Yes," I said, not pulling out, staying nestled inside her warmth. "I came inside you, baby. Deep inside. Daddy filled you up."

She shivered, her inner muscles clenching around me in aftershocks. "Good," she whispered, her chestnut hair spread out like a halo. "I want it. I want your baby, Daddy. I want to be yours in every way. I want to be pregnant with my father's child."

We stayed like that for long minutes, joined, sweating, the smell of sex and whiskey heavy in the air. When I finally withdrew, she winced, and I saw the evidence of her virginity on my cock, mixed with my seed. I should have felt guilt. I felt only possessiveness.

I carried her to my bedroom—the bedroom I'd shared with her mother for twenty years—and laid her on fresh sheets. I cleaned her gently with a warm cloth, kissing her bruised plush thighs, her tender massive breasts, her swollen soft lips. Then I climbed in beside her and held her as she drifted to sleep, her hand resting on my chest, her breathing evening out, her tall, curvy body pressed against mine.

In the morning, I would face the reality of what we'd done. The taboo, the potential consequences, the fact that I'd taken my biological daughter's innocence and planted my seed in her fertile young body with deliberate intent. But as I watched her sleep, her face peaceful and young, her hand possessively curled over my heart, I knew I would do it again. And again. And again.

She was mine now. Truly mine. And if my child was growing inside her, if I'd bred her on that leather couch while her mother's betrayal still burned fresh, then so be it. Some bonds were forged in fire, and some loves were worth any price.

Sarah stirred in her sleep, murmuring "Daddy," and I pulled her closer, already feeling myself harden against her plush hip. The night was young, and we had years to make up for.

I kissed her temple and whispered, "Welcome home, baby girl."

And as the sun began to rise, painting her smooth skin and chestnut hair in gold, I entered her again, slower this time, worshipfully, claiming her once more in the light of day, ensuring that there would be no doubt, no going back, only the future we'd chosen to create together—reckless, wrong, and utterly, devastatingly ours.