WHITE LINES 𓊆ྀི❤︎𓊇ྀི PRETTY BABY

You found no other way to grasp onto your surroundings at 4 AM other than to list the obvious around you after waking up: Dark sky, endless road and Leon— your boyfriend— still driving after many hours.

“Look who finally decided to wake up. Odd hour you chose, doll.” He mused in his groggy tone. Obviously, the long road had fatigued him at some point, and now it was showing.

Well, now you could add “tired” next to “Leon” on your little list.

“Shouldn’t we stop at a motel to actually get some rest? God, you look really tired.” Your sleepy murmur made him chuckle, his hand sneaking on your lap to squish the warm flesh. “Yeah, thank you. You look very cute as well.”

However, he couldn’t argue with stopping at a motel. Sleeping in a dingy, old and creaking bed at a cheap inn sounded better than passing out in the driver’s seat and crashing with his sweet baby. He couldn’t let that happen.

“Alright, how about you let me get some coffee first, then we’ll look for motels, yeah?” His fingers gave your soft flesh a squeeze. When he saw you nod, a warm smile appeared on his face, seeing how compliant his good girl was.

A gas station came in view quick and Leon pulled over. He hopped out of the vehicle, shutting the door behind him but leaving the window rolled down. Resting an arm against the door, he leaned through the open window, dipping his head inside to get a better look at you.

And you looked very cute to him when you were tired. All sleepy, yawning and very dependent on your loving older boyfriend.

“Do you want to tag along, bunny? Buy yourself something to munch on while I drive?” Leon cooed at your little nod and helped you get out of the car.

His bigger hand held yours as he took you inside the small shop of the gas station. A bell announced your entry, yet the clerk remained unfazed and focused on his vape. The puff he let out smelled like nicotine and mint.

One thing he noticed about you while browsing for snacks and drinks is that you were being very, very clingy. Not that he was complaining. Leon likes it when you’re touchy, even when it’s little things you do, like squeezing his bicep or lightly scratching his forearm.

But this time it was different. You gave him at least three kisses on his cheek ever since you two walked in. And you were clinging onto his arm like he was candy. Sweet and savory.

Well, Leon could only conclude that his poor baby was— to say the very least— craving for his dearest affection.

“Mm? What d’you need, pup? Talk to daddy.” He nudged you to grab your attention, just to see you hum half-heartedly.

“Want daddy.” Your drowsy voice stirred something physical within him. His fingers drifted to your hair, gently tucking it behind your ear before he taunted:

“Wait until we get to a motel, baby. Yeah? I’ll take such good care of you. Just have to be patient, princess.”

It was only fair. A motel meant a bed, albeit a cheap one with a hard mattress. Still, you refused to wait so long with a firm shake of your head.

Oh?

Leon’s lips curled into a smug grin as he realized just how badly you wanted him. After a quick glance up and down the aisles to make sure no one was watching, he decided to tease his girl just a little.

“So needy for daddy, huh? Can’t wait for even a little?”

“Nuh-uh.”

God, he couldn’t wait any longer.

Basket in hand, they finally headed to the checkout counter with their snacks and coffee. The clerk barely acknowledged them, only blowing out a cloud of vapor that carried the sharp scent of mint and nicotine.

“Anything else you two need?” the clerk asked, his tone indifferent, as though he couldn’t care less about their real intentions. Judging by the way you and Leon looked together, he’d probably mistaken them for a father and his daughter.

Leon’s eyes roamed around to find a bathroom, only for his gaze to fall on the Playboy magazines behind the man. Man, he wanted to fuck you even more now. His eyes quickly focused back on him. “Yeah, where’s your restroom?” He questioned too quickly, eyes shifting back to the pretty girl waiting to get fucked.

His dick was already fantasizing about seeing your lips pursed while slamming into you like a cheap porno. It didn’t even occur to him that he’d tugged you a little too hard toward the bathroom after the clerk pointed him in the right direction. So much for him being too deep in thought.

He shut the door behind them, making the cramped gas station bathroom your little world for tonight. And your basket of goods was long forgotten on the floor.

It wasn’t his ideal place to have sex, despite usually getting turned on by the idea of fucking in semi-public spaces. It was the faint stench and used syringes of heroin that irked him, one which he spotted in the corner of his eye while guiding you to lean over a dirty sink. “Alright, baby. C’mere.”

He directed your face towards his to catch your soft lips in a searing kiss. While his tongue sought after yours, his hand drifted to grope your soft tits over the fabric of whatever flimsy shirt you were wearing.

Leon instinctively pushed his crotch against your ass and made sure you felt how hard you made him. A string of saliva connected them despite the fact that he pulled away to look at your sleepy eyes. “Prettiest daughter in the world,” he muttered while tugging your shirt over your soft breasts. With the way you were turned toward him, he couldn’t fully appreciate the sight of you. His hand settled at your waist as he guided you to face the mirror hanging above the sink instead.

“Need you to hold onto the sink f’me, baby doll.” Another mumble slipped past his lips, but before you could make out the words, he caught your wrists and guided your hands to the edge of the sink. He’d been handling you like that more than a few times tonight.

“Look in the mirror, puppy,” He took your jaw in his fingers and moved it for you to look straight ahead. “Watch dad fuck your tight cunt right here, where anyone could walk right in and watch.”

God, the riskiness of it all made you even wetter than before. He was moving rapidly— pushing your jeans off your hips and letting them pool around your ankles. And all you could do was watch.

The dampness on your panties didn’t go unnoticed by Leon. If anything, the sight only earned a small smirk from him. “Look at my little pornstar… so wet for me already? Wow, you really want to get fucked. Tell me you want Dad to fuck you, sweetheart.” He ordered, moving his fingers to squeeze your cheeks together and make you pucker up.

“Want daddy to fuck me…” You managed to spit out, making Leon chuckle at the slight desperation in your voice.

“I raised such a needy little slut, huh? Fucking perfect.”

You didn’t know if you should’ve felt humiliated or turned on by his words. Leon seemed to really like playing his role as your daddy. And you liked being his compliant daughter.

“Well, if my girl wants me so bad… I can’t deny her now, can I? That’d be cruel.” He cooed in your ear in the midst of unbuckling his belt and letting his cock spring free from the cotton of his boxers. He aligned his tip with your soft pussy— no lube or spit needed with how fucking wet you were— and pushed it in so slowly, given how tight your sex was.

Leon let your small cunt stretch around his penis for a moment until he moved against you. He would’ve given you more time to adjust, but waiting any longer felt too risky because of your circumstances. “Theeeeere you go- biiiig, big stretch for my little girl.”

The size difference was dizzying. While Leon still forced you to watch him fuck you, your eyes just couldn’t help but admire how fucking big he was compared to you. No wonder he handled you so easily. He was more than capable of it. Compared to him, you felt almost doll-like.

Your moans were erratic and pornographic, along with your eyes rolled back and face still squished. If Leon could tape this, he would. “Pretty fucking baby— gonna fuck you dumb- fuck- yeahh, just like that.” Each plap, plap, plap turned him on more and more as he pursed his lips— along with the bulge he caused with each thrust— fucking you harder and harder. The sight was erotic, with the way you moaned, your tits bouncing, and the mascara around your bambi eyes running, making you look like a cheap pornstar. Not to mention your older boyfriend looming over you like a predator.

“Fuck— quit squeezing my cock like that, or I’m gonna cum.” He groaned against your shoulder, letting go of your face to grab your breast and squeeze it. You braced yourself against the porcelain due to how hard Leon was thrusting into you. “P-Pull out, daddy..” You cried out with that desperate tone of yours— the one that came when you were close to orgasm.

And yeah, maybe Leon should’ve worn protection. That way, he could’ve felt you cum around his cock instead of being asked to pull out. But Leon’s a nice guy.

So with reluctance, he grabbed your hips to pull his dick out of that really tight pussy, already feeling its absence. He clasped the base and stroked it once, twice, then one last time before he shot warm stripes of cum on your pretty butt.

“There you go… that’s my girl. Let me clean you up.” He finally praised you, reaching for a few thin paper towels to clean the mess from your skin.

You couldn’t wait to get to a motel for a possible round two.

Electra-complexes have been all the rage as of lately, anyway. Not only were you a participating hand, but you have clearly became a flat-out victim to it. That must be the thing with girls your age, they credit and waste away their lives by the latest trends which come around till they’re stamped back down to dust, crumbling into nonexistent specks. As of now, it just so happened to be a take-advantage-of-your-vulnerable-father type of season. Horrendous desires can be peeled back and revealed underneath a beautiful surface.

Takes one to know one. Leon wasn’t much of a clean slate himself, as surprising as that was. Suburbia could hide a lot of things under white picket fences and wrap-around porches and sniveling little inbred dogs that yapped around a pristine yard, but it could not scrub away the terrible blemishes done naturally by man.

For one, your dad is in no way shape or form a bad man. You love him to your heart’s limits and he returns the sentiment in a replicated form. Right hand on the bible, you wouldn’t give up the surname of Kennedy anytime soon (if a wedding had been absolutely necessary in that regard, so be it, that would only be another title to slip it besides your honorary ‘daughter’ status, officially metamorphosing into ‘daughterwife’ by an unknowing court). Daddy had deep pockets and an even deeper heart for his girl, you know it ‘cause, well, you’re said girl. His whole heart, the core that had been softened mush surrounded by a toughened exterior. You’d do anything and everything for one another. It comes with most father-daughter relationships, but in your case, it is extremely fragile, something precious.

That’s how you find yourself ended up in loitering in the once-vacant threshold of his door; an optimistic, glimmering beam against a vast and dark hall. Meeting him halfway in your unknowingly paralleled desires, like father like daughter. Always wanting and always waiting. You blink at Leon through thick, fluttering lashes, getting him down to each and every single detail. His fair side-part that had essentially become a signature piece of his look like the finest glass-cased memorabilia, the slight pudge of fat which sticks out amongst an ocean canvas of well-earned muscle from years of wasting away as a government lapdog and getting downright scandalous in the bootcamp showers, the blondish-gray stubble peppering his jaw.

(You’ve seen it all, the changes, the pornstache to subtle beard to modest stubble pipeline, the muscle melting into more chub than rigid limbs, awe, you almost feel nostalgic remembering him through those brief flickers of memory—like the the spanning film projecting onto a smooth, white screen.)

Regaining his composure, Leon sits up on his elbows, half-downed bottle of Jack Daniels long forgotten on the bedside table, “Honey,” he starts, voice rough and cleared out in nearly an instant when your face—beautiful, cherubic, strangely erotic, his masterpiece that has been taken from a rib and sprouted into the most gorgeous of girls—glows a dim orange from the room’s lamp, “what are you doing up so late? I thought you were knocked out cold.”

“I could say the same for you, daddy,” you shift your gaze to the liquor bottle for accentuation, “you’re drinking again.”

“Oh,” a heavy breath passes through his throat, cascading off of his tongue like a running stream, “sorry, baby, I know I told you I was on a clean streak, but—“ Leon shouldn’t really have to explain himself in this scenario, but he does, you’ve got a lot of heart on you to grasp some sense of understanding, “it’s just one of those nights, y’know?”

You could only bring yourself to hum at his words before making the cautious decision to press on, two feet at a time as you traversed the frame. So far, still innocent. With the door closed a modest few inches behind, your frame stands at the side of dad’s bed now, a twinge of curiosity striking the air right down the middle and leaving a transparent crack in the atmosphere. He’s just as gorgeous as the evening he had been between your thighs; wet desperate face dripping like a mutt and flushed cherry cheeks. There’s always time to take things miles ahead. Finish what had been started.

“Dad,” you pout, “I thought we agreed that’d you stop—for your sake, and for me,” crossing your arms against your chest, feeling as if the roles had somehow managed to switch up here, like more of a mother to him than subservient offspring, “you’re gonna kick the bucket sooner than you think if you keep this up!”

He pinches the gap between his eyebrows, jaw visibly clenched in the lowlight, “Okay, Christ, girl, I get it,” but clearly, he does not listen to a word you’re telling him because grown men do not take orders from girls barely out of adolescent, or more like, girls who are in the early stages of developing a front lobe, “but when you’re older, you—“

“Don’t give me that shit!” you sigh and click your tongue dramatically, “do whatever you want, fine, but, like, don’t blame me when your liver starts falling out of your ass.”

Leon, being as fatherly and tender as ever, shushes you like a newborn, like you were his little girl all over again (that didn’t really mean as much when he still treated you like it), and extends his big arms outwards till coarse hands latch onto your wrists, cupping them delicately and reeling you in closer from where you stood sulking. You sit on your knees next to him, wrist-in-hand, staring at him with this sense of bratty behavior that’d ought to be corrected appropriately.

“What’s got you so upset, sweetheart?” he asks, pulling a hand up to your hair and stroking it root to end repeatedly, “you usually never get this mad at me unless you need something.”

“I don’t need anything from you.”

“You must think of me as an idiot,” Leon’s expression nearly mirrors your own, dazed and unblinking, truly putting those genes on full display, “I’ve kept you fed, tucked you in every night, shit, I drove my ass all the way down to the drugstore the day your period came—I know you,” his free hand strokes trails along your back, a path of goosebumps appearing under his fingertip touch, “you can always tell dad what’s wrong.”

This is good. You’re exactly where you want to be right now. Holding your stance and keeping up with half of the act you’ve got going on—doe eyes peeking out from curtained lashes, pout pulling the corners of your lips down—there’s more fuel to add onto the fire. You grasp onto the opportunity tight as if it were a lifeline, taking a few deep breaths prior to taking the plunge, in which you tell him—

“The, uhm… it’s the ache again,” the faux innocence practically dripping off your tongue is almost comedy-worthy material, the funniest fucking joke since Charlie Chaplin’s biggest break, “from a few days ago, it’s hurtin’ again, real bad.”

“What?“ Once again, dad has that shell-shocked look pulled taut at the corners of his face, making him go paler than he usually is, teetering on the edge of vomiting his guts out from unanticipated conflict, “baby, are you sure? I thought you were doing better, you seemed fine yesterday, and the day before, and—“

“It’s worse this time,” you cut off, having to bite down on your tongue in prevention from giving yourself away, “it’s more… on the inside,” speaking the most truth you could, your body leans back near the foot of the bed and gives him a one-on-one show of seduction, spreading your legs and watching his eyes go to the short-clad center, “please, daddy, you’re the only one who can make it feel better.”

This was one of the worst possible times to be doing this to him right now. A drink or two away from passing into an intoxicated slumber, heart pulsing so fast you’d think the next bed he’d be laying in was a casket—this was torture. Stuck between a rock and a hard place. You watch him out of a cheeky, sadistic lens, how his hand runs through his hair and down the front of his face, how he seems to be at war with morality again. It’s the most entertaining thing you’ve witnessed since the first time you got this scandalous with him.

He’s convinced it’s the liquor in his system influencing him—the smoldering ambrosia unwavering and churning at the pit of his stomach, rippling like waves and puppeteering each move that’ll flare up as regret when the first hints of daybreak peak out from a fresh horizon. Maybe that was the definitive truth behind his motives; it was the alcohol, always the alcohol which locked him in a near-catatonic state, some fucked-up stupor where he was conscious in his own body yet still pushed forward in that perverse indulgence.

Right. Alcohol just had to be the problem. If it weren’t that, then it was the cigarette fumes seeping and getting into his head, or the sheer exhaustion that came with simply living and adapting to old age. Excuse after excuse. Dad had picked up on those habits—besides a sidelined addiction and a broken truce of sobriety—and it’s lead you to wonder: at what point does it become a conscious decision? When will he admit that everything that’s been done with you is by his own hand? You’ve most certainly been abstinent this whole time (good girl streaks are everything in a household such as his), so the concept of shame, at most, would just be purely hypocritical from either party.

For the faintest of moments, fleeting and carrying away into the atmosphere, his bleary eyes catch the hung crucifix hanging off the wall a few inches above his headboard. Mahogany and all-judgmental, it is a striking contrast from the sight below him—whorish and not sacred in any sort of sense. Leon feels the burning eyes of the nailed Savior on his back, brushing against the hairs at his neck. It’s humiliation. The sensation itself was overwhelming to the point it felt necessary to throw you out, never to speak of this again, but he doesn’t. Grown man with grown responsibilities over his actions.

Purgatory had always seemed like a better fit for his anguished and degenerate heart. Somewhere where no divine saints would find him and condemn his forever-tainting sins, a place capable of wholly relishing in the cesspools of ecstasy.

“Right, fuck, okay,” he nods and takes both of your ankles in a delicate hold, widening those soft legs apart before pinning them to either side of his braced and folded knees, “dad’s got you, sweetheart, just… scoot a little closer, yeah—there you go.”

Desperate and overcome with calamities of unwanted arousal weighing him down at every single possible angle, his fingers make no steady movement to hook into the waistband of your shorts, tugging them down in an almost brutal motion while catching your flimsy panties on the descent. You hiss subtly as the humid air hits your already soaking pussy, a line of slick momentarily bridging between your hole and the ruined gusset of your panties that really gets Leon on a high.

As he’s left stagnant in these circumstances—palms resting on top of your ankles and aimlessly running up-and-down your calves in a sensual fashion—it seems impossible not to help yourself. Squirming in place and tugging harsh on your fleshy bottom lip, a pitiful whine bubbles at the back of your throne and that is when you truly know you’re a goner. Lost to the ecstasy. The difficulty to maintain your composure comes across as the most impossible thing ever, fisting your clenching hands in the crumpled sheets.

“Hurts again down here, dad,” putting on your best of pouts, innocent and all the more convincing when you look at it through his vulnerable eyes, you drag a hand down your stomach and get to the place where he’s most needed—pointer and middle fingers trembling out of elation while they spread your chubby pussy lips apart, labia stretched and putting your wet insides on exhibit for him, “it’s been like this since the last time we were together, I think you could help again.”

(Of course he could, he always could and would, what point was it to be your father if he didn’t bend over backwards to tend to meet every single need?)

Leon has to swallow and wet his tongue so he doesn’t choke on the way you’re able to stupefy him so easily. This is not how he raised you, not at all. You were supposed to be a dignified young lady; prim and proper, mooching off his savings, waiting till marriage until the right guy eventually swept you off your feet and into a life of your own. Another one to lost to white picket fence dreams. But then again, even that was one too many expectations to beat out of you. Dad already loves you how you are—as degenerate and pathetic he was—that’s just how the extents of fatherly love goes.

“We can’t… keep doing this,” Leon tells you hesitantly, an obvious lie which oozes out of the gaps between his clenched teeth and doesn’t come out more than a means to put an end to such behavior, “it’s wrong.”

And despite the revelation, he still fists the metal buckle of his belt, tugging free the batted leather from iron clamps and releasing all inhibitions. If he were so innocent, he wouldn’t be here—meaty thighs anchored to the mattress and forcing your legs in a debauched spread—a mask of guilt latching onto the face he once maintained a high reputation to. He wouldn’t be palming at the girlish peaks of your nipples, cupping the doughy mounds while his cock rests on your lower stomach.

“It feels good to me,” you smile, “what feels good can’t be wrong.”

“Easy for you to say,” He scoffs, taking those thighs and shoving them up halfway up your naked torso with just about enough roughness to snap a tendon or two, like attempting to manhandle someone caught in the latest stages of rigor mortis (he’s already dead, you’re already dead, each and every thing moral and law-abiding went to die the second he laid his filthy hands on you), “you’re not the one who’d land her ass a spot on death row for this.”

“I’d never tell on you, though.”

“You’re a good liar,” His eyes find their way back to yours and it’s difficult to decipher the emotions swirling, relentless and violent as a whirlpool in those endless cerulean pools that have witnessed more than what you’ve made out of your life.

“I swear on everything, on my heart,” you stifle a whine when the the ridges of his cock slide between your folds, tip bumping against your swollen nub with as his hips rock back-and-forth and that’s when you think it’s the best time to hold out a shaky hand to him, a single pinky held out in offering, “pinky promise, dad.”

God. You really know how to strike him down. What tactics that tend to pierce at his weakest points, the tender, squirming flesh which dissipates and scatters to make way for something that was once so open and yielding to you without the now-implemented tension (the repercussions of permitting his permanent deviation to be passed down from one to another). You’re trying to make yourself come off as innocent—tilted face, that disastrous pinky, as much vulnerability painted on your face as a prey animal—and it’s working. He’s not immune to anything about you. Then again, that’d been pinpointed ever since you’d drift into his thoughts as a nuisance, said nuisance then becoming the pinnacle of his carnal desires that replaced plastic pornstars and barely legal pigtailed whores sprawled on the front pages of sketchy multi-paged sites.

This was impossible. You were impossible at the end of all things. These desires, the daughter (alternatively: the number one temptation), the occasional flashing montages that reel on an endless repeat of his worsts of the worsts in life. Leon is seriously fucked-up, he concluded. He is ruined and that is why he shows no reluctance in giving you his own pinky—a tradition you’ve subjected him to since you were a tiny girl—and wraps it around your smaller one, tight and sincere and showing no means in shattering the childish seal behind the gesture.

“Dad’s gonna give you what you need, baby,” Leon releases his pinky from yours and opts for spreading his entire hand out instead, sensually sliding it up your wrist and finding the empty slots of your fingers where he intertwines his own with them. Entangled like lovers and nothing more.

As he gives a few smacks to your pussy with the reddish tip, it’s only now that you realize that dad’s huge, like, barbarically huge. The type of size which could land him a spot on the front cover of Playboy or Hustler, something along those lines. You could see it—Italian stud put in the eye of publicity, the latest in fashion, all muscled fat and glazed skin, cock sculpted by the very gods themselves and put on a vulgar display. And you have it all to yourself ‘cause before general audiences came his top priority; his very own flesh and blood, the piece of his heart which could not be broken off.

When you find yourself too captivated by the sight, Leon brings you back down to Earth and caresses your thigh sweetly, a juxtaposition to how his cock rests intimidating and hot on the plane of your lower stomach. He gives himself a few up-and-down strokes, fist pumping the throbbing flesh and initiating a bead of pre to collect at the blunt tip.

“Is that all for me?” you decide to tease, feeding into the guilt, the inevitable, lingering misconduct which lays dormant at the back of his head,

“All for you,” he nods, “tell me if I’m hurtin’ you, okay? Last thing I want is—“ A muffled grunt topples off his tongue when you break his words off with a sudden kiss, warm and wet and invading, practically swallowing his irresistible mouth that’s been running on morality this, ethics that, this isn’t how things are supposed to go. All that jazz. “Sweetheart,” Leon blinks, sighing and petting your hair lovingly, “I’m being serious.”

“I am too, daddy.”

Fucking minx. Little harlot that’s got him played on the tip of her fingertips. You’re so lucky that he just doesn’t kick your ass to the curb—he loves you too much and that’s the issue.

If you were so desperate to catch a dick—and if he were correct to make such a leap in assumptions—you wouldn’t mind if he lined his cock up with your soaking hole, slowly sinking into you inch by inch deprived of a single warning in the world. You wouldn’t mind how he keeps all of your fingers in an intertwined lock with his, holding you down until a shaky exhale of relief leaves his lungs when he kisses your cervix after some effort of stuffing himself inside entirely. Because, really, what do you know?

He’s got years of experience under his belt, confined in that denim which serves as the seal to his unwarranted arousal. There’s a range, you know. In his twenties it was taking virgins and sluts alike back to his dorm and fucking the President’s daughter on the low—plastering SCANDAL across the front of tabloids for weeks. In his thirties, it simmered down into Motel Six hook-ups and a frequented part of him he found on the job of being a government lapdog. Eventually that kind of thing carried onto his forties and now-fifties after your mother’s leave, but then again, he’s got you. An amalgamation of all sexual instances throughout his miserable, on-a-high type of life.

The virgin, the slut, the hook-up. Some divine trinity that has came to him as… perhaps retribution, or even a permanent reward if he saw that as fit. A test to see if he’s still got some juice left in the tank (by the looks and sheer effort put into it, you’d say your dad is more than capable).

“Oh, daddy,” squeezing the pads of your fingers against his knuckles, crushing balmy palms together while your head is left trashing side-to-side against the pillow, you feel an inflation of ecstasy burst your head open, “I can feel you—you’re inside of me.”

“Isn’t this what you want?” he breathes, hanging his head low and gazing over your cute face, drenched in sweat and dominated by an expression which only boasts how good he makes you feel.

It’s almost nostalgic; dad’s been your first in everything. Your first heartbreak, your first infatuation, the reason why you know so much yet so little about how men truly function. So, there wasn’t a lot of surprise when everything beforehand had came down to this—coercing Leon little by little into being your first sexual encounter, taking you as you are ‘cause you’re the most perfect thing he’s laid his eyes on since your mother.

“All I’ve ever wanted was you, dad,” earnestness bleeds through your words that, without doubt, strikes at his heart for a second, leaving him vulnerable in the moment and compelling his hips to pound deeper, rougher as distraction which sends a flurry of gasps between the words you continue with: “my heart belongs to you.”

After a period of processing, feeling him sliding in-and-out so brutally as if he’s got nothing to lose, you watch how his eyes are drawn back to yours. Like a moth to a flame, the enticing magnet he cannot help but feel drawn to when the attraction is palpable in the air. Thick enough to cut through with the sharpest blade. Leon doesn’t think to ask you if you’re hurting because the proof is quite literally in front of him—from half-lidded eyes to warm cheeks and the prettiest lips left agape. Yeah. You’re exactly where you want to be.

You were asking for it, in better lack of terms. Wide open and giving yourself to him without a single sensible thought lodged into your system. He’s better off being merciless than bursting the heat of the moment.

“No shit you do, sweetheart,” Leon chuckles through a halfway strain in his tone, panting like an un-neutered mutt, torso lathered in a fine layer of sweat and endeavor, “just like your momma,“ he releases one of his hands and caresses the side of your face as if you were the finest piece of China, cascading downwards to cup your bouncing tits, then flattening a palm against your rapid heart, “big heart, tight pussy—pretty face too.”

“I’m still your girl, though,” you grin, hooking your shifty legs around his waist.

He shakes his head in disbelief, “You always were,” albeit the snarky nature to his words, his movements were a contradiction—hips moving in a relentless drive that he reached that sweet spot inside of you over and over again, kissing your cervix till you saw speckles of stars dot across a blurred landscape, “you’ve always been a spoiled little thing, getting your way no matter what she tried to do.”

In a brief period of hesitant reflection, Leon eventually moves where his hand laid against your heart and shoves it around your neck, a gentle, crushing fist holding the bobbing column. It’s only right, it’s only nature for me to do this, he tells himself over and over again. A broken phonograph on how to deal with his internal conflict. You had to be punished for your deviancy one way or another, it’s just how the way things worked here, or, at least under his paternal authority. He could get so much more violent than this, spitting on your cheek and telling you that—

I didn’t raise whores under my roof did I?—You’re nothing but temptation, a slut, a bitch I should’ve kicked to the curb the second you tried to pull me down with you—I don’t even know who you are anymore, you’re not the girl I raised, you don’t deserve my surname, or a bed in my house, or matter of fact, a place to lay by my side—good daughters don’t have filthy intentions—

But he’s not that type of man. Swear by his heart, by the oath he took all of those years ago down at the police academy before things had went to shit. That he’d on the upside of things, a moral man, a do-gooder of the government and his country and whatever type of character he ought to build for himself. If you had managed to look at it from the correct perspective—Leon accomplished as much of a ‘good life’ as he could. Wedded with a white-picket dream by twenty, daughter by thirty, stable enough once his mid-forties hit. He had most of it.

Some things don’t last forever, and sometimes they are whisked away with the wind as quickly as they came. His life had always been driven to shit and left to sunk in what couldn’t be reversed. You just happened to come along at some point, weighing down on his crooked spine of dilemmas and issues that have practically been screwed into him. None of this was even your fault, honest. It’s always been him, always angry, always giving in to what could keep him sated in temporary tranquility. Recreational heroin used to do the trick, coke sometimes when it was the good kind (he misses Ashley’s blonde ass and her big white rich girl daddy’s mansion for that exact reason), but now he’s regressed to this.

Daughter pussy gets him higher than any narcotic in his system and he can tell by how he gets so utterly lost in it; fisting your throat while an oxygen-deprived daze has lewd moans spilling one after another off of your tongue, jackhammering his cock inside and molding your guts to the shape of him, eyes fixated on your moving tits. None of this felt real to Leon in any sort of way.

(He hopes this hurts.)

Holding onto his hand for dear life, you sputter and whine and can’t help but be grateful for where your acts of seduction have gotten you. Dad loves you so much and you wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Daddy, oh my god, please—“ you mewl, mouth open and letting out the dirtiest uh, uh, uh’s, “it’s too much!”

“Shut the fuck up,” he grunts, “you wanna act like a whore, you get treated like one.”

His frustrations and all of those bottled-up issues are projected onto how he makes you feel; gripping your throat like Leon’s got a personal vendetta against it, never-letting-up hips thrusting his cock so rapidly and violently that you’re convinced that sitting in any way shape or form in the aftermath would give you the aches. You never should’ve tampered with a ruined man because look where that had got you ended up (though you really do not think to argue about it when there’s an ample measure of ecstasy bustling in your veins, warming your blood and hurling you over the edge).

The last thing you remember is his face of feral nature above you—wide, lust-glazed eyes and an unhinged jaw that never seem to leave your face, on addition with the near death-grip he captures your throat in. It’s too much. Too exhilarating, too brutal, too much for a girl like you to bear the weight of. So, it’s with tight legs locked around his waist and an onslaught of messy, lewd noises is what you remember the last bits of your dignity by. Your vision goes black like a controlled eclipse, shadowing the dim lights and detonating a boundless sea of static across your vision. Pleasure dances across your vision and accompanies how the knot in your lower stomach undoes itself, releasing and staining his pelvis in an explosive arousal.

Blinking back into consciousness makes you wonder in a hazy mind if any of this had been real. Sweat beads along the curvature of your cheek, his hand cupping the skin in a (seemingly) reverent display. The same hands that had been used in a violation of his own morality returns to what it once was, coarse palms whispering Leon’s silent affection that couldn’t be bothered to wring out of hoarse throat. Although, his face remains blank, conflicted and overwhelmed and undecided how to feel about the filth that’s already been unraveled.

“Dad loves you, baby,” he speaks again, albeit gentler and accustomed to that father-esque tone you’ve grown to love and embrace all your life—it’s rather unsettling after what he had just spewed a few moments ago, spitting in your face amidst his derived pleasure, “nobody else but me’s got you like this.”

“Nobody else,” you confirm, shaking your head slightly while lying on his chest in a successful search for some much-needed fatherly comfort.

And you cannot bring yourself to hate him for that. Disdain and regret are temporary things to you, transient little emotions that call forth the strongest desires to gut him inside-out for. An act of honorable violence. The same arms that cradled you, nurtured you as his own, loved you for the daughter you’ve grown to be, are the same which initiated so much depraved ecstasy to seep into your personal wants.

That type of solace only comes once in a girl’s lifetime; protective and detrimental, a strong mass of flesh which you will always find crawling back into the open jaws of. It’s just the way things should be, as life intended. You’ve accepted the worse, which couldn’t have been any different from what Leon was to you (the father, the bastard, the ruination).