The late afternoon sun beat down on the backyard, turning the carefully mowed lawn into a sweltering green canvas. The only sounds were the rhythmic thwump of a softball hitting leather and the occasional grunt of effort. Katrina, her blonde ponytail sticking to the damp skin of her neck, wound up for another pitch. Her focus was absolute, her form a product of thirteen years of meticulous coaching.
On an upturned bucket, twenty feet away, her father sat encased in catcher’s gear. The mask hid his face, but she knew his eyes were locked on her, analyzing every shift of her weight, every flick of her wrist.
“Remember, Kitten,” his voice echoed slightly from behind the mask. “It’s in the snap. Don’t guide it. Let it fly.”
She nodded, her tongue poking out in concentration. This was their ritual. Every Sunday when the weather allowed. He’d been her first coach, her only consistent one. The bucket, the gear, the patient advice – it was as familiar as her own heartbeat.
She went into her motion, leg lifting, arm whipping around in a perfect circle. This one was her masterpiece, a nasty curveball that started right at his chest and dove sharply downward at the last second. She released it with a hard snap of her wrist.
The ball obeyed, veering down and in. He saw it late, his mitt dropping to meet it. The leather tip of the mitt grazed the ball, but didn’t secure it. The hard sphere caromed off the edge, took a vicious hop, and connected with a sickening, hollow thud right between his thighs.
For a second, there was silence.
Then a raw, guttural curse tore from his throat, a sound of pure, undiluted agony. He dropped the mitt, his hands flying to his groin as he doubled over on the bucket, almost tipping it over. “Jesus Christ!”
“Daddy!” Katrina’s heart leapt into her throat. She sprinted across the grass, skidding to a halt in front of him as he gasped, his face pale beneath the mask. He fumbled with the strap, tearing the mask off and throwing it aside. His features were contorted, eyes squeezed shut.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry! I’m so, so sorry!” she babbled, her hands fluttering uselessly. He couldn’t even speak, just rocked slightly, sucking air through clenched teeth. “Let me help you inside. Come on.”
He allowed her to slip an arm under his shoulder, leaning his considerable weight on her as he hobbled to his feet. Every step was a pained shuffle. They made a slow, agonizing procession across the yard, up the porch steps, and into the blessedly cool living room. He collapsed into his worn leather recliner with another groan.
“Ice. I’ll get ice.” She dashed to the kitchen, her mind racing. She yanked open the freezer, grabbed a bag of frozen peas, and ran back. He was starting tull down his sweatpants, pushing them and his boxer-briefs down just enough to expose the injured area.
Katrina’s eyes, wide with concern, couldn’t help but flicker down.
It wasn’t her first time seeing it. Not by a long shot. A habit, a guilty, thrilling secret she’d carried for years – catching glimpses through cracked bathroom doors, the reflection in a hallway mirror when he stepped out of the shower. He was careless about privacy, and she was… curious. Hungry, even.
But she’d never seen it like this. Normally it was impressive – thick, long, resting heavily against his thigh. Now it was an angry, swollen red, already showing the dark promise of bruises. It looked painfully vulnerable.
“Here, Daddy,” she said, her voice trembling as she gently placed the bag of peas over his groin. He flinched at the contact, then sighed as the cold began to seep in.
“Fuck, Kat. That was a hell of a pitch.” His voice was strained, but a hint of pride bled through the pain.
“I’m so sorry,” she repeated, kneeling beside the chair. She was fussing, unable to stop. She fluffed a pillow for his head, helped him put the recliner’s footrest up. “Should we go to the doctor?”
“No. No doctors. Just… give me a beer. And the ibuprofen.”
She fetched both, handing him three tablets and a cold bottle. He swallowed the pills, tipping the bottle back, draining half of it in one long pull. She watched his Adam’s apple bob. He finished it quickly, and she brought him another without being asked. Then, thinking the pain must be awful, she went to the liquor cabinet and poured a double shot of bourbon into a heavy glass, far more than his usual finger-width.
“Maybe this’ll help,” she said, offering it.
He took it, giving her a sidelong look. “Trying to get me drunk, Kitten?”
“Just trying to make it better,” she whispered, her cheeks flushing.
He downed the whiskey, hissing as it burned its way down. He leaned back, closing his eyes. For the next thirty minutes, she hovered. She apologized again. She massaged his tense shoulders through his t-shirt, her small hands kneading the hard muscles. She adjusted the pillow. She replaced the bag of peas with a fresh ice pack from the freezer.
Slowly, the lines of pain on his face eased. The sharp, pained breaths became deeper, more even. The whiskey and beer did their work.
“S’better,” he mumbled, his speech becoming loose and slurry. “Thanks, baby girl. You’re a good nurse.”
His hand found hers on his shoulder and gave it a weak squeeze. A few minutes later, a soft, rhythmic snore filled the room. He was asleep.
Katrina stood there in the quiet living room, the only light coming from the fading sun through the blinds. Her eyes were drawn, irresistibly, to the recliner. To the ice pack resting on his lap. To the memory of what lay beneath it.
Her heart hammered against her ribs. A cocktail of guilt, worry, and a deep, throbbing arousal churned in her stomach. She had hurt him. Her daddy. And she had seen… that.
She crept closer, her bare feet silent on the carpet. She could see the edge of the ice pack, a trickle of condensation running down onto his exposed skin. The bruising was more pronounced now, a deep purplish-red against the pale skin of his inner thigh.
It looks so sore, she thought. The remorse was genuine, a sharp ache in her chest. But underneath it, a hotter, darker current pulled at her. The secret glances over the years, the fantasies she’d stifled, the way her body reacted whenever she caught that masculine, clean scent of him… it all coalesced into a single, overpowering urge.
She had to see. She had to… help.
With a trembling hand, she reached out. Her fingers brushed the cold, damp towel of the ice pack. She lifted it slowly, carefully, setting it on the coffee table with a soft clink of the ice inside.
And there it was.
Even swollen and bruised, it was magnificent. Thick and long, resting heavily against his leg. The head was a darker, angry red, peeking from its hood. A fine trail of dark hair led from his navel down to the base.
Her breath caught. Her panties were instantly damp. She leaned in, her remorse and her desire twisting together into a single purpose.
I’ll just kiss it. Just once. To make it better.
She bent lower, her ponytail falling over her shoulder. She pressed her lips together and, with the utmost tenderness, placed a soft, closed-mouth kiss on the very tip of his swollen head.
She froze, watching his face. He didn’t stir. His breathing remained deep and even.
Emboldened, she did it again. A second peck, a little lower, on the shaft. The skin was hot, surprisingly soft. A third kiss, on the other side. Then, almost without thinking, her tongue darted out, a quick, apologetic lick along a particularly dark patch of bruising. She tasted salt and skin and something uniquely, essentially him.
A low groan rumbled in his chest. Her eyes shot to his face. His eyelids fluttered, but didn’t open. He shifted in the chair, his hips pushing upward slightly.
She kissed the length of him, her lips traveling from base to tip. She licked him again, longer this time, swirling her tongue around the broad head, tracing the ridge. Another, deeper groan from the chair. His cock twitched against her lips, then began to swell in earnest, the injury seemingly forgotten by his sleeping body.
The sound, the movement, sent a jolt of pure lightning straight to her core. She was wet, aching. All her careful reasoning evaporated. She wasn’t just checking on him anymore. She was worshipping.
It grew, thickening and lengthening, rising from his thigh until it stood fully erect, a proud, bruised monument. She stared at it, her mouth watering.
Just to make sure it still works, she told herself, the lie tasting sweet.
She opened her mouth, leaning forward until her lips brushed the heated skin. She took just the head inside, swirling her tongue around it, exploring the smoothness, the slit. A salty bead of pre-cum greeted her, and she moaned softly, sucking it away.
His hand, which had been resting on the arm of the chair, twitched.
She didn’t stop. She couldn’t. She sank down further, letting more of him slide into the wet heat of her mouth. He was big, stretching her lips wide. She bobbed her head tentatively, taking a little more each time, learning the rhythm. Her hand came up to wrap around the base of his shaft, her fingers not quite meeting. She stroked what she couldn’t take, her movements growing more confident.
His groans were constant now, a low, pleasured soundtrack to her actions. She lost herself in the sensation – the heavy weight on her tongue, the salty taste, the way her own arousal soaked through her shorts. She hollowed her cheeks, sucking hard as she pulled up, then plunging down again, trying to take him deeper.
Then she felt it. His hand, large and warm, settling on the back of her head. Not pushing. Just… there.
Her eyes flew open. She paused, his cock buried halfway in her mouth. Had he woken up? She dared a glance upward. His eyes were still closed, but his brow was furrowed in pleasure, his lips parted.
His fingers threaded through her hair, gripping gently. Then, with a soft pressure, he pushed her head down.
A thrill of panic and raw excitement shot through her. She obeyed, sliding more of him into her mouth. He groaned, a sound of pure approval. His grip tightened, and he began to set the pace, pulling her up until just the head remained between her lips, then firmly guiding her back down.
He’s awake. He knows. And he’s doing this.
The thought shattered her last pretense. She surrendered completely, letting him control the rhythm. Up and down. Up and down. His hips began to meet her, thrusting gently off the chair. The wet, slick sounds of her mouth on him filled the quiet room, mingling with his ragged breathing and her own muffled whimpers.
“That’s it,” he murmured, his voice thick with sleep and lust. “Just like that, baby.”
He was fully in control now. His hand in her hair was demanding, possessive. He fucked her mouth with slow, deep thrusts, each one pressing the head of his cock against the back of her throat. She gagged slightly, tears springing to her eyes, but she didn’t pull away. She wanted this. She wanted all of him.
“Open up for me,” he growled, his eyes slitting open, dark with desire. “Take it all.”
On the next downstroke, he held her head down. She fought her reflex, forcing her throat muscles to relax. And then he was there, pushing past the barrier. The thick head popped into her throat, and then the rest of his length followed, until her nose was buried in the coarse hair at his base. He held her there, his entire cock sheathed in her throat, and she could feel every pulsing vein, every twitch.
He held her for a long, breathless moment, then pulled her back, letting her gasp for air, spit and saliva stringing from her lips to his shining cock.
He pushed her back down, and this time she took him easier, the deep-throating motion becoming part of their rhythm. He was relentless, his thrusts becoming harder, faster, driving into her throat with a primal urgency. The chair creaked. Her tears flowed freely, a mix of overwhelming sensation and absolute submission.
She could feel him getting harder, thicker. His balls drew up tight against his body. His breathing became ragged gasps.
“Gonna come,” he warned, his voice a ragged scrape. “Where do you want it, Kitten?”
She didn’t pull off. She just looked up at him, her eyes pleading, and took him deeper, her throat working around him.
That was all the answer he needed. With a final, guttural roar, he slammed her head down, grinding her face into his pelvis. His cock swelled and then pulsed, jet after hot jet of cum erupting directly down her throat. She swallowed convulsively, the taste salty and bitter and perfect, each thick spasm making him jerk in her mouth. He held her there until the last shudder passed through him, until he was spent and softening.
Finally, the pressure on her head eased. His hand fell away, stroking her hair almost apologetically. She pulled off with a wet, gasping pop, strings of saliva and cum connecting her lips to his still-half-hard cock. She knelt there, chest heaving, her lips swollen and sensitive, her throat sore.
She looked up at him. He was staring down at her, his expression unreadable – a mix of shock, lingering pleasure, and dawning reality. The haze of sleep and alcohol and pain was gone from his eyes, replaced by a sharp, clear intensity.
He didn’t move to cover himself. He just looked at her, her tear-streaked face, her glistening lips.
“Katrina,” he said, his voice rough. “Why… why did you do that?”
She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, her heart pounding so hard she thought it might break. She met his gaze, her own filled with a confusing mix of innocence and wanton desire.
“I was just kissing it better, Daddy.”
The silence stretched between them, thick and electric, broken only by the ragged sound of their breathing. He stared at her, his expression shifting from shock to something more complex—a deep, searching intensity. Katrina stayed on her knees, the taste of him still on her tongue, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs.
“Why did you do that?” he repeated, his voice lower now, rough with spent passion and something else—curiosity.
Katrina swallowed, her throat working around the lingering sensation of him. She looked down at his lap, at his cock, still glistening from her mouth, now softening against his thigh. The bruises stood out in stark contrast. She felt a fresh wave of guilt, but it was drowned out by a surge of defiant honesty. The secret was out. There was no taking it back.
“I told you,” she whispered, her own voice husky. “I was kissing it better.”
A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips. “That’s some kiss.” He shifted in the recliner, and a sharp wince twisted his features. He sucked in a breath through his teeth. The movement was a stark reminder of the injury, of the reality outside this bubble of forbidden heat.
“Does it still hurt?” she asked, leaning forward instinctively, her hand hovering near his thigh.
“Like a son of a bitch,” he admitted with a grimace. Then his eyes locked on hers. “But that’s not what I’m asking, Kitten. How long have you… felt this way?”
The question hung in the air. Katrina’s cheeks burned, but she didn’t look away. The years of stolen glances, of racing heartbeats at the sound of the shower running, of lingering a little too long when she hugged him goodnight—it all came rushing to the surface. It was a confession she’d never imagined speaking aloud.
“A long time,” she said, the words tumbling out in a soft rush. “Since… since I was maybe fourteen or fifteen. I’d… peek. When you left the door open changing. Or when you got out of the shower. I couldn’t help it.” She bit her lip, her blue eyes wide and vulnerable. “I’m sorry.”
He was quiet for a moment, just studying her face. Then he slowly, carefully, pushed himself up in the recliner, using the arms for leverage. He swung his legs down, planting his feet on the floor. He let out a controlled breath, his jaw tight.
“Well,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “Your kisses worked. Pain’s all gone.”
The lie was so obvious it was almost sweet. He tried to stand, and a sharp gasp escaped him. He swayed, one hand shooting out to grip the arm of the chair. Katrina was on her feet in an instant, slipping under his arm to support him.
“Daddy, you’re not okay,” she said, her concern genuine.
“I’m fine,” he insisted, but he leaned into her, his weight warm and solid against her side. He looked down at her, his free hand coming up to cup her cheek. His thumb brushed over her lower lip, still swollen from his use of her mouth. “Just a little stiff. Come on.”
He led them toward the back of the house, toward the master bedroom. Her parents’ room. Katrina’s breath hitched, but she didn’t protest. She helped him walk, each step a careful shuffle. The air between them crackled with unspoken intent.
They reached the doorway. The room was neat, dominated by a large king-sized bed with a dark blue comforter. The late afternoon sun slanted through the blinds, painting stripes of gold across the floor. He let go of her shoulder at the doorway and turned to face her.
“Those cleats,” he said, his gaze dropping to her feet. “Your mother would kill you for tracking dirt into our room.”
She looked down at her softball cleats, the dirty rubber spikes digging into the hallway runner. It was such a mundane, practical thing to say. It made everything feel dizzyingly real. “Oh. Right.” She kicked them off in the hallway as he walked further into the room before following him, her heart thundering.
Now they were face-to-face in the middle of the bedroom, her parents' room, his room. He reached for the hem of her damp t-shirt. She lifted her arms obediently, and he pulled it up and over her head, tossing it aside. Her sports bra was next, the practical fabric gone, leaving her small, pert breasts bare to the warm air. Her nipples tightened instantly into hard, pink peaks.
A low sound escaped him, a hum of appreciation. “My beautiful girl,” he whispered, his hands coming up to cradle her breasts. His thumbs brushed over her nipples, and a jolt of pure pleasure shot straight to her core. She whimpered, her head falling back.
His mouth followed his hands. He bent his head and took one nipple into his mouth, sucking gently, then with more pressure. His tongue swirled around the sensitive bud, and Katrina cried out, her fingers tangling in his hair. He lavished attention on one breast, then the other, until she was panting, her knees weak.
He hooked his fingers in the waistband of her shorts and her plain cotton panties and pushed them down her legs in one smooth motion. She stepped out of them, kicking the pile of clothing aside. Now she was completely naked before him, the evening sun warming her skin.
He took a step back, his eyes drinking her in. She stood there, allowing it, her body toned and athletic, her blonde ponytail draped over one shoulder. She saw the hunger in his gaze, the awe, and it made her feel powerful and desired in a way she’d never known.
“Lie down,” he said, his voice thick.
She crawled onto the center of the big bed, the sheets cool against her heated skin. She lay back, watching as he finally, slowly, pushed his sweatpants and boxer-briefs the rest of the way down his legs, kicking off his sneakers as he did so. He stepped out of them, naked now except for his t-shirt, which he pulled over his head and discarded. His body was strong, solid, a father’s body with a thick forest of hair on his chest, a tapering stripe of hair running down his belly and merging with the hair on his pelvis. And between his legs, his cock, though softened, was still impressively large, the bruises a dark testament to her earlier mistake.
He joined her on the bed, not immediately covering her body with his, but lying beside her, propped on one elbow. He leaned in and kissed her. It was their first real kiss—deep, searching, tender. His tongue swept into her mouth, and she could taste the bourbon. It was wildly intimate. She kissed him back with all the pent-up longing of years, her hands sliding over his shoulders, feeling the hard muscle there.
He broke the kiss, his lips trailing down her neck, over her collarbone. “My turn to kiss it better,” he murmured against her skin.
He moved down her body with a slow, worshipful patience that made her shiver. He kissed the valley between her breasts, her ribcage, her toned stomach. He nuzzled the blonde curls at the junction of her thighs, breathing her in. She was already soaked, her arousal slick and hot.
“Daddy…” she moaned, the word a plea.
He didn’t make her wait. He spread her legs wider, his hands on her inner thighs, and lowered his mouth to her.
The first touch of his tongue was a lightning bolt. A soft, flat lick from her opening all the way up to her clit. She arched off the bed with a sharp cry. He did it again, slower this time, savoring her. Then he focused on her clit, circling it with the tip of his tongue, flicking it gently. Pleasure, white-hot and relentless, began to coil deep in her belly.
“Oh, god… yes…” she babbled, her hands fisting in the sheets.
He ate her pussy with a single-minded devotion that shattered her. He licked and sucked, his tongue delving inside her, then returning to torment her swollen clit. He used his lips, his teeth for gentle nips that made her gasp. He was an expert, knowing just how to build the pressure, to take her right to the edge and ease back, only to push her higher again. The wet, hungry sounds of his mouth on her filled the room, mingling with her increasingly desperate moans.
“Please… Daddy, please…” she begged, not even sure what she was begging for.
He slid two fingers inside her, curling them, finding a spot that made her see stars. His mouth stayed on her clit, sucking rhythmically as his fingers pumped in and out. The dual sensation was too much.
Her orgasm ripped through her with a violence that stole her voice. Her back bowed, her thighs clamped around his head, and a raw, screaming cry tore from her throat as wave after wave of ecstasy crashed over her. He didn’t stop, gentling his motions, licking her through the tremors until she was a sobbing, boneless heap on the bed.
He crawled up her body, kissing her stomach, her breasts, her throat, before settling his weight between her thighs. His cock, now fully hard and throbbing, pressed against her soaked entrance. He looked down at her, his face flushed, his eyes soft with an emotion that made her heart ache.
“This might hurt, baby,” he whispered, brushing her sweat-damp hair from her forehead. “I’ll go slow. Tell me to stop anytime.”
She nodded, her eyes wide. She was scared, excited, utterly consumed by him. “I want you to,” she breathed. “I’ve always wanted you to.”
He positioned himself, the broad head of his cock nudging against her tight opening. He pushed forward, just an inch. There was a sharp sting, a burning stretch. Katrina gasped, her nails digging into his biceps.
“Shhh,” he soothed, stilling. “Breathe, Kitten. Just breathe.”
She did, forcing air into her lungs. The initial pain subsided, replaced by a feeling of incredible fullness as he pushed in another inch, then another. He was so big, stretching her in ways she’d never imagined. He moved with exquisite slowness, letting her body adjust, kissing her tears away.
When he was fully sheathed inside her, he paused, buried to the hilt. They were joined, completely. Father and daughter. Man and woman. He looked into her eyes, and she saw love there, and passion, and a fierce, protective tenderness.
“Okay?” he asked, his voice strained with the effort of holding still.
She nodded, wrapping her legs around his waist. “Okay.”
He began to move. Slow, deep, gentle thrusts that rocked her whole body. Each withdrawal was agony, each penetration a sweet, piercing pleasure. The soreness faded, burned away by the building fire of her renewed arousal. He was so deep, hitting places that made her whimper with need.
He picked up the pace, his thrusts becoming more confident, more vigorous. The bed began to creak in a steady rhythm. He braced himself on his forearms, his face above hers, their breath mingling. He fucked her with a loving intensity that was more devastating than any fantasy. It was real. It was him. His sweat dripped onto her chest. His groans were music.
“You feel… so good… so tight…” he grunted, his control starting to fray. “My sweet Kitten… my girl…”
His words pushed her higher. She met his thrusts, lifting her hips, taking him deeper. The friction was incredible, the slap of skin on skin a primal beat. She could feel another orgasm building, deeper and more profound than the first. It wasn’t just physical; it was emotional, a culmination of every hidden dream.
“Daddy, I’m gonna…” she choked out.
“Come for me,” he urged, his pace becoming frantic, pounding into her with desperate, loving force. “Come for Daddy.”
Her second climax exploded through her, a silent, shattering release that clenched around him like a vise. She convulsed, her inner muscles milking his length, her vision whiting out.
Feeling her tight channel convulse around him broke his last shred of control. With a ragged, broken cry, he drove into her one final time, burying himself to the root. His cock pulsed, and she felt the hot rush of his release filling her, jet after jet, marking her as his in the most intimate way possible. He collapsed on top of her, his weight a comforting anchor, his face buried in her neck as they both shuddered through the aftershocks.
For a long time, they just lay there, tangled together, sticky and spent. His softening cock still nestled inside her. He shifted to an upright position, but didn’t pull out. He lifted her leg and swung it over until she was on her side, careful to remain inside her, then lay on his side next to her. He gathered her close, her back to his chest, spooning her. His arms wrapped around her, his hands splayed possessively over her stomach. He nuzzled her hair.
“Katrina,” he whispered, his voice full of wonder.
She hummed, snuggling back against him, utterly content, floating in a haze of pleasure and love. This was where she was meant to be.
They dozed, maybe for minutes, maybe longer. The room grew darker as the sun went behind the trees. Finally, he stirred behind her. He kissed her shoulder.
“We need to get cleaned up,” he said softly, regret tinging his words. “Your mom will be home soon.”
Reality, cold and mundane, seeped back into the room. Sunday. Her mom’s shopping day with her sister. A tradition her mother had finally given up forcing Katrina to join when she turned eighteen.
“I don’t want to move,” she murmured, clutching his arm.
“I know.” He sighed, and finally, slowly, withdrew from her. The loss was physical, an emptiness. He sat up on the edge of the bed, running a hand through his hair. He looked over his shoulder at her, his expression tender but serious. “Come on. Let's hit the shower.”
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