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You hated your dad. You hated the way everyone worshipped the ground he walked on. He was the sharp, respected cop with the perfect smile and the spotless record. The man who could manipulate a courtroom with a few words and bend reality without anyone noticing. To them, he was untouchable. To you, he was something else entirely.
You couldn’t blame them for not seeing your father’s cruel, depraved nature because he was dangerously good at hiding it. The mask he wore was flawless. But behind closed doors, the real man came out. The one who stripped off his uniform and revealed something far worse than a monster. And God, how much you hated him for it.
You hated the way he looked at you when no one was watching. The way his eyes lingered, hungry and cruel. You hated how his voice dropped when he was in one of those moods, how he spoke to you like you were nothing more than something to be used. Whispering filthy, twisted things that made you feel wanted and worthless all at once. You hated how easily he took what he wanted from your body, and how he made you believe it was your fault.
Your father always blamed you. He was convinced that you wanted it, that you came onto him, and started it. At first, you fought back. You argued with him, denied, and begged. But it always ended the same: with your body covered in bruises and your mouth too swollen to speak. And him acting as if he was the one who’d been hurt.
You hated how small he made you feel, how he tore you down until you didn’t recognize yourself. But more than anything, you hated him for making you crave him. You craved his touch, his teeth on your neck, and his hands gripping you like you were something he couldn’t afford to lose.
And sometimes, in your darkest, weakest moments, you were terrified he might leave. That one day he’d find someone better; someone who didn’t fight him at every turn, someone who didn’t talk back, someone easier to break. In those moments, you kept replaying the first time he crossed that bright red line a father should never cross. Because in some sick, twisted way, it made you feel validated because he chose you, his daughter, and not someone else to satisfy his needs.
The first time something happened between you was on a summer night. You remember it with disturbing clarity: the image of him coming home tipsy, in such a good mood, that the shift in tone gave you whiplash every time you thought about it.
You sat curled up on the couch in the living room, rewatching your favorite show while waiting for your dad to return from an office party. He’d just gotten another promotion, another big check on top of all the others he’d earned through what you once believed was honest, hard police work. (You knew better now.)
It wasn’t necessary to stay up for him, but you always felt safer when he was home, like nothing could touch you as long as he was somewhere in the house. Ironic, looking back, considering he became the very thing you needed protection from.
That night, you wore your usual summer pajamas: a thin camisole and soft cotton shorts. You hadn’t thought anything of it at the time. But later, after everything, you’d replay that detail over and over, blaming yourself for wearing something so flimsy.
The sound of his keys fumbling in the lock still lingers in your memory, jangling like a warning bell you didn’t hear in time. Then the soft creak of the front door, followed by his voice humming some stupid tune under his breath.
He kicked off his shoes with exaggerated care, chuckling to himself. His tie hung loose around his neck, shirt half-untucked. He was clearly tipsy.
You normally disliked drunk people, but your dad was different when he drank. He was softer, goofier. He wasn’t as harsh as he normally was. He almost seemed… kind. Like a big, harmless teddy bear with whiskey on his breath. You couldn’t have imagined how wrong that comparison would turn out to be that night.
At first, he didn’t seem to notice you. But when you let out a small giggle after hearing him hiccup, his head turned. His eyes found you in the dim light of the TV, and a smile spread across his face, his pearly white teeth glinting.
“Still awake?” he asked, blinking at you with glassy, amused eyes. “It’s way past your bedtime, sweetheart.”
You rolled your eyes, chuckling good-heartedly. “No, dad, it’s not past my bedtime. I’m over eighteen, remember? I can stay up as late as I want.”
He started walking towards you, unhurried. You should have stood up, then. You should have left the room, but you didn’t. You didn’t see the way his gaze changed; how it drifted down your face, paused on your lips, then moved lower, tracing your bare legs, before climbing slowly back up. “Mhm,” he hummed, voice thick like honey. “I haven’t forgotten in the slightest.”
Overwhelmed by the sudden attention, you turned your eyes back to the TV. You missed the way he subtly adjusted the front of his pants, watching you sitting there in that little outfit, waiting for him.
With a long sigh, he let himself fall beside you on the couch. The cushions dipped under his weight, and your body leaned instinctively into his. His arm slipped around your shoulders, pulling you even closer against his side. It almost made you feel giddy since it wasn’t often he let you this close. (You wished it had stayed that way, now.)
“What are you watching, anyway?” he asked. His fingers found the thin strap of your camisole. He played with it absently, wrapping the fabric around his finger before letting it slip, loosening it just enough that it slid an inch off your shoulder.
He leaned further into you, arm tightening. His nose pressed into your hair, and he breathed in deeply. You were glad you had showered earlier. Otherwise, you might’ve been afraid you smelled bad.
“Mhm,” he purred, his voice growing heavier with each breath he took. “You smell so... sweet. You’re sweet. You’re always so sweet, and eager to please, aren’t you, baby? My sweet, sweet girl. Sometimes, I just want to bite you.”
Suddenly, and without any warning, something shifted. You weren’t sure what it was, but you started to feel uncomfortable. Your heart skipped a beat as his fingers trailed down your arm, taking the strap of your camisole with them. Before a nipple could slip free, you placed your hand over his to stop him from doing… what exactly? You didn’t know. This was far beyond your comfort zone.
He tsked, and your body turned to stone. Your eyes stayed fixed on the TV without really registering what was happening on the screen, despite having seen the show probably a hundred times. His hand on your arm felt like a brand you couldn’t shake off. A hysterical laugh bubbled up your throat, and in an attempt to unbalance him, you jerked your shoulder sharply into him, then twisted your body sideways to break free.
It was pointless. Your father’s grip didn’t loosen in the slightest, and you were sure his fingers would leave small bruises with how tightly he held you. (You were right.)
“Dad… what are you doing?” you gulped. “You’re drunk. You should go to bed.”
He scoffed mockingly. “I’m not going anywhere. And neither are you.”
Your eyes widened in disbelief, your mouth opening and closing like a fish trapped in a glass bowl. He had never spoken to you like that before. Sure, he wasn’t the most loving father, but he had never mocked you or made fun of you.
“I—I don’t understand,” you whispered, helpless.
“Of course you don’t,” he answered with a condescending breath. It was almost like he pitied you for your innocence.
His free hand moved to your face, knuckles brushing your cheek. You tried to turn away, but his fingers followed, tracing the shape of your mouth. It made your skin tingle.
Then, without warning, he pushed his middle finger past your lips, pressing it down onto your tongue. Even if your mind had been able to form a single coherent thought, your mouth was already full, silenced by the weight of your father's hand.
His eyes locked onto your lips, heavy-lidded and starved. His own mouth parted. His tongue slipped out, dragging a line of saliva across his bottom lip. “You don’t know what you do to me, do you?”
You tried to speak, but he shushed you. Spit was gathering around his finger, making it easier and easier for him to slide it around inside your mouth. As his hand pressed deeper, it triggered your gag reflex.
Acting on instinct, you released your grip on his wrist, hoping to halt his advance, but instead, the sudden freedom gave his right hand autonomy to roam. His fingers drifted downward, catching the delicate strap of your top again and tugging it from your arm, leaving your breast bare.
Your eyes widened in panic. Everything was going wrong, wrong, wrong.
You didn’t know what to do. Your dad's hand slipped away from your mouth, but the relief was short-lived. His arm stayed locked around you, crushing you against him. There was something unhinged in the way he held you; it was possessive and desperate at the same time, like he was afraid you might vanish at any moment.
With his wet finger, he began to map a slow, deliberate line down your neck, the touch cold and alien against your burning skin. Your pulse thudded violently beneath his fingertip. You wanted to scream, to pull away, but your body betrayed you, frozen in a terrifying mix of panic and shame.
He followed the delicate curve of your collarbones, memorizing every inch, marking his territory. Then, his finger circled your hardening nipple, coaxing it into a sharp peak.
You hated yourself for how your body responded, betraying the storm inside your mind. You felt completely trapped by him and the panic curled tighter around your heart. It was suffocating.
“Dad, please, stop!”
“You don’t know how often I’ve thought about touching you like this, baby,” he whispered, completely ignoring your begging. His breath was hot against your skin as he pressed sloppy, wet kisses along your cheek and your temple, branding you with his mouth.
“Every night,” he rasped, “I lie awake and think about you. About your little body... how soft you’d feel underneath me. How sweet you'd sound when I finally make you mine.”
Each word sank into your skin like ice. The panic in your chest expanded, pressing up against your ribs, your throat. You wanted to disappear but his grip didn’t loosen.
As tears welled in your eyes, you choked out another plea, “This isn’t right, dad. Please... please, stop.”
“Why would I stop,” he growled, your resistance only fueling him, “when I finally have you here, in my arms, wearing these flimsy little clothes... looking so damn ripe for the taking?”
“But—But,” you stuttered. You felt like a little child who didn’t know enough to make a serious argument. “I'm your daughter.”
“Exactly,” his words dripped with the predatory charm of a wolf playing with a wounded deer. “You're mine. And I can do what I want with my possessions.”
The tears that had welled up in your eyes began to spill, rolling down your cheeks like pearls. Every muscle in your body fought the urge to sob, your throat burning with the effort. You could feel snot gathering in your nose, sliding down as your father’s fingers continued to wander over your exposed skin. It was humiliating.
“Dad,” your voice was merely a whisper, a quivering mess. “Please, whatever you’re planning to do, please don’t. I’m begging you.”
He studied your tear-streaked face for a moment, absently caressing the top of your chest. You squirmed involuntarily under his gaze, daring to hope your pleading had swayed him. That he would end this nonsense now, stop touching you like this, and return to the father you once knew.
The hope died the moment his pupils blackened even further, his eyes following the trail of tears down to your lips. It didn’t seem to matter that the salty streaks mingled with your snot. He inhaled sharply.
“Seeing you like this makes me want to claim you even more, sweetheart. I’m sorry”, he didn’t sound apologetic at all, “but you have to give me something. I’ll make you a deal, okay?”
Your father straightened in his seat, forcing your body to follow. Your top slid down even farther, exposing your other boob as well, but you barely registered it. You were past caring; your appearance was irrelevant. He would violate you anyway.
“I’ll make you a deal,” he repeated, his voice now carrying a guttural edge. “You let me taste those soft, plump lips—”
Immediately, you shook your head, your mouth pressing into a firm line.
“Or,” he continued smoothly, ignoring your obvious resistance, “you let me play with your little pussy while I make myself come.”
Your head snapped in another fierce shake, even harder than before.
“You don’t even have to do much,” he coaxed, as if that made anything better. “Just stay still and look pretty. That’s not too hard for you, is it? So—” he purred, “will you give me your mouth… or your pussy?”
You don’t know what triggered it; whether it was the audacity your father had to demand something so obscene from you, or the sheer helplessness that sparked the flood of uncontrollable rage suddenly overwhelming your body.
“You’re sick,” you hissed. “What kind of father would want this from his own fucking daughter?”
With a strength you hadn’t known you possessed, you shoved him off you and got to your feet. Maybe it was the adrenaline making you faster and stronger, or maybe it was the alcohol in his system slowing his reactions.
Within seconds, though, he was in front of you, and you realized how foolish that moment of defiance had been. His imposing figure loomed over you, nostrils flaring in anger. Shit.
With a squeak you weren’t proud of, you turned hastily to flee the living room. Escape was your only thought. But your father wasn’t your father if he couldn’t pull himself together in three seconds flat to stop you.
Unconventionally, he hurled you back onto the couch, following instantly, forcing your legs apart until it hurt. He pinned your hands above your head, his fingers clamped so tightly around your arms they ached. No matter how viciously you struggled, no matter how you twisted and heaved to throw him off, he didn’t budge an inch. You were trapped.
“I’m sorry,” you sobbed, the violent look in his eyes making you panic. “I’ll do it! I’ll kiss you. Please, dad, don’t hurt me. I’ll do it!”
With a shaky breath, you forced yourself to remain as still as possible, fearing that any sudden movement might make him even angrier. Your cheeks burned with the effort, and the intensity of his gaze sent heat across your skin. You don’t know how many seconds or minutes had passed before a sleazy grin appeared on his face, the angry glint vanishing from his eyes.
“Well, if you ask so nicely, who am I to say no?”
One of his hands curled around your throat, pushing your head up. The pressure was gentle but absolute. It was a silent declaration of power, and you weren’t the one holding it. A whimper nearly escaped your throat, but you buried it back down.
Swallowing hard, you forced yourself to meet his eyes. Endure, endure, endure, you told yourself. Just get through it, and it would be over. He’ll let you go, and you could disappear into your room, locking the door behind you and pretend none of this had ever happened.
His thumb brushed your bottom lip once, then twice, making your body shiver and your heart pound wildly in your chest. You felt yourself slipping, caught between wanting to break free and the crushing silence of paralysis as your dad's lips met yours with astonishingly soft pressure.
Your eyes widened in shock, disgust rising like a tide. You wanted to scream, to shove him away, but you reminded yourself to stay still. The sooner he got what he wanted, the sooner this would end. Clinging to that thought, you drew on every shred of willpower, closed your eyes, and let your lips part. His deep groan was immediate, his tongue seeking yours without hesitation.
You knew you should’ve been repulsed by the feeling of his tongue against yours, and you despised yourself for it but the kiss felt good. Your dad kissed with the skill of someone who had done this countless times, smoothly controlling the pace and guiding you without giving you space to resist. His lips were soft yet firm against yours, neither too wet nor too forceful, and the hand at your throat sent an unwelcome rush of heat through your body, settling low in your stomach. If he were anyone else, you’d probably enjoy it.
Without seeming aware of it, your father’s grip on your neck tightened, as if overwhelmed by the taste of you. His hips jerked forward, pinning you in place, his hardness pressing into your barely covered crotch. A sharp gasp escaped you as he aligned perfectly against you, the pressure sending a jolt straight through your core. Spurred on by your sound, he began to roll his hips, grinding in slow, sensual motions that blurred the line between disgust and something you refused to name.
As his dick kept brushing against your pussy with dangerous expertise, you began to feel yourself growing wet. With a startled gasp, you turned your head away from his mouth, desperately gasping for air, not realizing how long you’d been lost in the kiss.
But it wasn’t just the sharp, burning need for oxygen that left you panting, it was your father’s relentless and filthy rhythm. He watched you like a hawk with a maniacal focus etched across his face. His brutal strength pinned you down, making it impossible for you to move, to do anything but take what he was giving.
“Feels good, doesn’t it, baby?”
Shaking your head, you hiccuped, “Dad, you promised!”
Never in a million years would you admit he was right, that it felt good. You couldn’t even admit it to yourself. Shame crept up your spine, making your eyes sting and your breath catch.
“I didn’t promise anything,” he growled, eyes boring into yours. “I made you a deal, and—”
“Exactly,” you wailed helplessly as his hips gave a particularly powerful jerk, hitting all the right spots. “And I chose to kiss you, not… not this!”
“You chose to kiss me so you could turn it into this. You’re the one who opened the door, my little darling, not me. So don’t act like I’m the villain here.”
But he was the villain, wasn’t he? He hadn’t given you any real choice. You had never planned for this to happen, but your body had betrayed you in the worst way possible. You were caught between resistance and pleasure, the shame sharper than any anger you could feel toward your father. Was it possible to hate and want something at the same time? If your body responded to his touch, did it mean you secretly wanted it? Craved it? Did it mean you were to blame as well? You didn’t know anymore.
Your dad seemed to sense your inner turmoil, and like the true predator he was, he pounced on it. His eyes softened in a way that made it impossible to look away, the edges of his smile curling like he already knew every thought in your head. With a silky-soft voice, he said, “You don’t have to pretend with me. You don’t have to be scared of what you feel. Not with me. What matters is that you’re honest with yourself. And whatever you’re feeling… it’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
He slowly released your arms, still pinned above your head, and let his hand roam to your face. His thumb brushed lazily over your cheek, the touch both gentle and possessive. It unbalanced the hell out of you. “So why don’t you just shut that pretty little mouth of yours and let me show you exactly what you need, yeah?”
Confusion, helplessness, and desire swirled inside you, leaving you unable to hold on to a single clear thought or response. But none of it mattered, because your father was the one in control, leaving you with little room to make any real decisions.
He didn’t give you a choice when he pulled you into another kiss. His lips were gentle yet insistent, moving against yours as if savoring every second. His hands slid from your face to your neck and down to your chest, teasing you until soft whimpers escaped your lips. You felt his smirk against your mouth, satisfied by your reaction.
As your dad's hands settled on your waist, his hips began to move again, tilting and guiding you subtly. His tongue continued to explore yours, each movement amplifying every sensation until you were completely overwhelmed. You felt yourself growing wetter with every rub, unable to do anything about it.
Your hands moved to his forearms, gripping tightly as you tried to anchor yourself, but the waves of heat kept pulling you under. The room seemed to shrink around the two of you, the world outside fading as all that existed was the pleasure and pressure between your bodies, the mingling of breaths and the sounds that involuntarily escaped your lips.
Your dad deepened the kiss, tilting his head to give him better access, and you felt yourself melting against him, completely consumed by the unwanted connection. Each glide of his clothed dick against your core seemed to send an electric shock through you, your senses igniting in a way that left you trembling. Your back arched unconsciously, and the soft whimpers turned into gasps as his rhythm intensified. You felt disgusted by how good he made you feel.
The combination of his movements, the heat of your bodies, and the constant press of lips and tongue created a storm inside you that built faster and faster. You felt your body tighten. A mounting pressure coiled within you, and with a shuddering gasp, it broke—
“Oh my God, no!”
With a sudden flash of clarity, you desperately tried to push your dad off you. But it was to no avail, your body convulsed with pleasure anyway, each nerve coming alive. Your eyes closed on their own accord, your mouth forming an O, letting sounds of satisfaction escape.
Through it all, you could feel your father tensing up as well, rutting against you as though eager to reach his own finish line. His grip on your waist tightened, sure to leave bruises in its wake. With a shudder and a moan so deep you could feel it vibrating through your bones, he climaxed, his length firmly pressed against your wet crotch.
Your body trembled from the aftershocks as your mind struggled to comprehend what had just happened. You were caught between disbelief and the lingering fire of pleasure. Wide-eyed, you stared up at your father.
“Fuck, that was so hot, baby,” he groaned, his voice thick with admiration. His hips kept twitching, brushing against your sensitive core. You could feel the damp patch spreading in his slacks.
A low laugh escaped him. “You made me come in my pants like a fucking teenager.”
As if coming up for air after drowning, you started to heave. He wasn’t a fucking teenager, he was a grown man who had just taken advantage of you. Even worse, he was your father. Your brain was slow to catch up, endorphins still flooding your body, but you knew what had just happened was all kinds of wrong. And you were just as much to blame as him.
Tears that had long since dried returned, running down your cheeks without end. You felt disgusted with yourself, ashamed, and insecure. The constant turmoil, the relentless rise and fall of it all, had become too much to handle. You broke down in your perpetrator’s arms, the sticky wetness in your underwear turning cold, leaving you feeling even more exposed and revolting.
“Hey,” he shushed, stroking your hair lovingly. “Everything’s alright, my darling. You did so well. I’m proud of you.”
But there was nothing to be proud of. Nothing you had just done gave you a sense of accomplishment or pride. Nothing your dad could say or do would ever make this right.
With the last of your strength, you finally managed to push him off you. Perhaps it wasn’t strength at all, perhaps he simply allowed it, but in that moment, you didn’t care. All you wanted was to flee. And that’s exactly what you did.
Your legs trembled beneath you as you stumbled into your room. You locked the door with shaking hands, but the safety you longed for never came. You felt just as exposed within your own four walls as you had in the living room. You strained your ears for any movement, any creak in the floorboards, but there was nothing.
Finally, you sank onto the edge of your bed. The silence pressed in from all sides, thicker than any scream, until even your own breath sounded foreign to you. Nothing felt like it belonged to you anymore; not your thoughts, not your skin, not even the tears that kept falling. You stared into the darkness of your room, waiting for something, anything, to break the stillness. But nothing came.
That night, the love and adoration you once held for your father warped into something far darker and more forbidden than you could have ever imagined.