WHITE LINES 𓊆ྀི❤︎𓊇ྀི PRETTY BABY

“Daddy,” you start one evening, frowning and sitting at the edge of your bed in those flimsy pajama shorts that look more than lingerie than anything, “I’m telling you—it’s really hurting down there.”

“What hurts, baby? Where does it hurt?” Leon asks with just about the right amount of fatherly affection he could muster, brows furrowed in worry as he no longer lingered at your room’s threshold like a apparition in the dark, heading towards you and standing over your slightly leaned-back form.

Having to stifle a small smile that would’ve gave your whole innocent-little-daddy’s-girl act away, you bite down on the fleshy wall of your inner cheek prior to going the full way to getting what you wanted.

“Right here,” trailing your hand downwards the surface of your stomach, fingertips lining soft fabric sensual and slow as if it were a striptease, finally using a palm to cup your clothed mound, “hurts real bad, dad, do you think you could kiss it better?”

His breaths make an audible stutter once he makes the connection, kiss-plump lips slightly agape when he stares between where your hand is and the pretty batting of those lashes gently caressing your cheeks. You can’t be serious, there’s no way. Sure he’s kissed thousands of bruises and scrapes and cuts you’ve managed to gain over the years, girlhood to adolescent to young adulthood, but something like this was merely incomparable.

Lord forgive his sorry ass for whatever he was about to succumb to on this night.

“Well, uhm, are you sure?” he blinks a dozen times within a second, attempting to dissect whether or not this was some type of cruel joke being played on his psyche. Give him a break, he’s teetering on the verge of sixty, only a few five years off, “Maybe you could just sleep it off, kid, or I’ve got some spare ibuprofen and Tylenol in my drawer, I think that could fetch—“

“Dad,” your voice halts the air like a needle through skin, sighing and spreading your legs a little further to give further emphasis on the ‘pain’, “can’t wait that long, it’s really hurting.”

Leon blinks at you, hard, finding himself in a standstill. He could’ve bolted out of there, slamming your door on the way out without the customary goodnight, honey and burrow in his empty nest of a bed, pledging to never bring such scandalous matter up under his roof again. That was the problem here. He was letting you take the reins on nearly every aspect, stringing him around like a marionette when he, in actuality, held the most authority. After all, he paid the bills, he put the food on the table, he was the one who ended up becoming the human coatrack for every single bag he had paid for at the mall.

This could not go on. He’ll show you who’s in charge first and foremost—he’s going to make his own decision on this predicament, no matter how perverse or depraved it was to the naked eye.

He swipes a palm over his hair, palming the flaxen strands back before running it down the entire expanse of his face, “Christ, baby,“ he jumbles over his words, hop-scotching and jumping all the wrong things he could say to find the correct ones, “it’s a little inappropriate for me to do that, don’t you think?”

“Why?” you ask, blinking and feeling the nearby breeze wisping in from your half-cracked window.

“Because it ain’t right.”

“But we’re family, that’s why—“

“—there’s not a single thing wrong with it.” You finish for him, flashing the sweetest of smiles that ignites like a rapid blaze spreading out on a large, dry endless field. Goddamn minx in disguise. A sex pest enthralling his little girl.

Leon thinks he’s gonna regret this forever. You see it on his face—how a single hand stays splayed over one half of his face, his Adam’s apple subtly bobbing with the one heavy breath which exhales out of his throat. A dichotomy between right and wrong. Right—because you’re his girl, his life, the one person he rarely said no to on a streak of months, perhaps even years at this point. Wrong—because you’re his fucking daughter for crying out loud, his own flesh and blood that has never looked so good in her yellowed bedside lamp. One testifier discovers you two out and hollers, there goes his perfectly quaint life.

Those are, however, only the if’s. Within these four walls are only two sentient beings, you and him, and whatever third party neighbor was laying behind your closed curtains bound to their own privacy. His guilt reveling in the aftermath would be the only eyewitness and that was that.

He feels a silver of defeat pass through him, prickling the top of his spine and slowly traveling down the lengthy column while settling at the bottom. The sensation worsens as he no longer fixes to stand, instead settling between your spread legs, large palms smoothing across each thigh before moving to cup the underside.

“You gotta tell me how bad it hurts, sweetheart,” he says carefully, mouth going cotton-dry while brazenly gaping at the thin layer that separates the tip of his nose from your wanting pussy.

“It’s hard to tell,” you pout, heart punching against your ribcage at such a rate you wouldn’t be surprised in the slightest if you suffered from cardiac arrest.

Sighing, his fingers hook into the place where you’ve been wanting him the most—tightened around the trimmed waistband of your shorts. Using this to his (more like your own, really), advantage, he slides them down your legs meticulously and almost hesitantly. Must’ve been coincidence how your panties somehow got caught in the crossfire along the way, pussy so wet that a bridge of stickiness strings from your ruined gusset, joining how your lower-half garments are left carelessly discarded by his aching knees. He’d rather put you over his knee for forcing your dear old dad to bend and lean into positions he hasn’t seen in the last decade or so.

Beggars can’t be choosers. Especially when they came to him in the form of the nefarious little brats who dug at his heart, turning the tender middle to the softest mush he’s felt since your mother came into his life. Shame. She had dissipated as fast as she came into the picture, but perhaps it was for the better.

“Alright, honey, up here,” Dad taps one of your legs by the side and that’s enough for you to move both of them, resting them on the mantle of his shoulders while you’re biting your lower lip in an attempt to not give yourself away right then and there, “stay like that for me, I’m gonna uh…. kiss it better for you, okay?”

You nod and watch his head disappear amidst your legs, descending below. For a second, you see his face—how his cheeks are blossomed over with the faintest twinge of red, or how a slight perspiration beads at his forehead, causing his overhanging strands to stick adhesively. The type of face that visibly showed off how he’s trying not to actively bust in the meanwhile. He can be so cute sometimes.

Leon starts off tender and delicately runs his tongue down the split of your already soaked pussy, a grunt stifling at his throat’s base when the flavor explodes across the flat plane of tastebuds lining his tongue. A whine is quick to be knocked out of you, hips gently bucking against your daddy’s face, feeling the slight brush of his nose bridge bumping up at your throbbing clit.

His hands splay across each of your inner thighs, head bowed as if in prayer when he finds a coherent rhythm to trail along with. His soft lips focus on giving your clit a barrage of sincere kisses, fingers sliding in to thumb at the hood of your clit, pushing it back and you think the sensation just about teeters you on the edge of a climax. But you persist—mewling like a kitten and clawing your nails relentlessly into the sea of linen beneath you.

“Need more,” you whimper aloud, impatience bubbling underneath your oh-so patient surface, “I’m hurtin’ so, so badly, daddy.”

“Shh, honey, dad’s got you,” Leon’s voice is muffled against your pussy practically swallowing his face, savoring the ebbs of your wetness before allowing himself to fully indulge in the fruit of your self-made ambrosia. You think it drives him near hysterical judging by the way he slumps his shoulders forward, fingers pressing near bruise-purple indents into the doughy flesh of your thighs. The things the state of being pussydrunk can do to a man.

With boyishly flushed cheeks and half-lidded eyes that you could get traverse for days, he makes it no secret that his ministrations have grown to become more fervent; less of that delicate, wedding-night affection that you’d expect out of a barely-twenty groom with zero prior sexual knowledge, and more like the type of faux-romance you’d see on the stashed raunchy VHS tapes kept in the basement’s furthest backcorner. You remember that. Clear as day, retained in your memory as if it were something worth remembering.

Wet tongues, tits as big as your daddy’s yet sporting that mild artificial swelling which without a doubt, stamped the pairs as nothing but fake, reddening angry cocks amplified by the use of constant, over-the-counter Viagra, imitated moans and whines that would’ve probably gotten them somewhere further than the porn industry—these things did nothing but harm on your poor innocent malleable brain. Besides the fact that Leon was already a flat-out pervert, such exposures already worsened that rampant gene he had passed down onto you.

That being said, you’ve technically been doomed for life. Through and through. To whatever extent he could paint himself as innocent in this scenario, nobody was truly a clean slate in this situation. Like father like daughter.

Dad tongues at your pussy as if he’s got nothing to lose, sliding the warm pink muscle in-and-out of your hole and latching his lips onto your nub respectively, gathering more arousal to take in greedily. No wonder he could hold down an unstable marriage for another year and half with a skill like this.

Has your head thrown back against the mattress, hips rolling over and over again while the sweetest of moans reach the hanging ceiling. Your heels dig into the firm planes of his shoulders and that’s enough to tell him you’re gone—fully losing your grasp on reality and surrendering to rays of ecstasy he bathes you in. God, you wish you could see his face right now; blissed out, embarrassed, oh, most definitely humiliated. You’d get a real kick out of that.

But one thing about your daddy: he knows his way around a girl whether you liked it or not. You could’ve been a two-bit hooker, his wife, some young bar quickie Leon would think about every few months or so—he’d fuck you all the same. Men are just like that. Lowlife, dishonorable degenerates who stick their bones into anything living and worthy of coddling them in waves upon waves of eternal affection.

“Feelin’ any better, honey?” he asks, breathless and gazing longingly at your spread labia, swollen and ever so slick with the combined mess that you both partake in.

Garbling and attempting to knock some sense into yourself, you blink down at him through crescent-lidded eyes, stubbornness bleeding into your tone when you respond with: “Just a little more,” it comes out meeker than intended, but the point is across and basically dangling in his stupidly handsome mutt face, “please, dad, fuck, just—“

Leon already has an exact idea on what direction this is going in. Just give me a little bit more, dad! I promise I’ll be good and don’t you love your daughter and you never let me get what I want, he’s selfish, mean, a fucking asshole—

He’s seen the whole gist. The countless acts and tactics you’ve put up for years. Your daddy is many things but he is not stupid in the slightest. Can read you front to back, like the lines etched into his palms, like the constellations that peppered across a vast, black abyss. Been there and done that. In the end, you always get what you want because he lets it happen and he’s feeling especially generous today so he’ll let this whole thing off in a one big detonation of everyone-gets-their-piece-of-cake. There isn’t much more to happiness in his sorry life than a happy thriving daughter under his thumb.

Doesn’t take much for him to drive you over the edge—making out with your soaked cunt, kissing your clit like the most precious of jewels, spit from his moving tongue dribbling between your folds and gathering at the underside of your ass. It’s all very nasty but you’re in no position to criticize the debauched aspect when he’s the reason your hips are squirming against his face, cunt fluttering around his mouth as if it’s got nothing to lose. With your back arching off of the bed, eyes no longer fighting to urge to roll back anymore, the pleasure consumes you head to toe—

Speckles of ecstasy glitter throughout your vision when you come, squirming hips suffocating Leon in your pelvis while you’re moaning so loud it most definitely woke a neighbor or two. The mounting pressure at your core snaps like a strained cable, releasing the floodgates and wetting his face forehead to chin. A grand finish fit for a pampered girl. You’re satisfied and he’s exhausted and opened up new doors for himself that are impossible to shut again—honestly everyone’s winning here, as expected.

Leon grunts quietly, carefully maneuvering your trembling legs off of his sore shoulders with a soft kiss to your knee. Despite everything, his means to be a father is still there. It’s only second nature at this point. His splattered face glimmers under the reflections of your lamp, lips parted, hair matted down by sweat—looking rugged and handsome as he always is, “You owe me one for this,” he mutters, fond yet awkward smile plastered slightly on his lips, “still hurting or—?”

“I… no, that was fine,” you respond when the right words form a sentence on your tongue, “thanks, daddy, I love you.”

He’s thoughtful enough to fish out a new pair of shorts and panties somewhere deep in your closet, doing most of the work and helping redress what had been undone. Standing up once more, you can see that his expression is blank and, for the most part, is unreadable of his emotions. Although, it only takes a single blink for him to offer a warm, fatherly smile to you—makes your heart feel tender at the edges. He strokes your hair back sweetly and it’s like falling in love with him again for the first time.

You wish you could do more. I mean, yeah, you most certainly had the ability to sink to your knees in front of him, or even bend over right then and there to show him what he’s missing, but that’s just pushing it. Dad already does so much for you. That’s something saved for another day.

As he wanders back over to your half-opened door, nudging it open with his foot, he gives you one last look and scratches the back of his head, “Love you more, baby, get some rest.”