Who's Your Daddy

Alrighty, this one's got incest (f/d), impregnation, a first time, reluctance, and some good ol' size kink. I might write a second part for this, so potentially stay tuned?

Hope you enjoy!

-- -- -- -- --

I can't wait to start college.

I mean, seriously: how long can one summer feel? Infinitely long, apparently.

Honestly, I think doing manual labor would be more fun than my current situation. Hell, I'd go paint some houses for free. Then I'd get to watch paint dry -- a second activity that's more fun than anything I've done recently!

See, I'm barely allowed out of the house. Each parent's got their own shit going on, but apparently the one thing they agree on is keeping me under lock and key. One less potential problem or something, not that I'd ever been a troublemaker at all.

And it especially sucks because it's this one. The summer before college! I'm cute enough, eighteen, and done with high school. Shouldn't I be having at least some fun?

But the universe said no. No fun for you, Sally.

Just endless sudoku.

Gee, thanks, universe.

--

I know plenty of people with divorced parents. It's, like, pretty common nowadays, but it seems like all those parents got divorced when their kids were young, so it was normal for all of the kids by the time they were teens.

None of them seemed any weirder than average, which I guess is good. The only time you got any real weirdness was around holidays. Those kids always had some strange shit going on then.

"Hey, want to come to my birthday party?"

"I already said yes."

"No, that was the party my mom's throwing. This is for my dad's party."

"Oh."

That type of strange shit.

Sure, the young kids thing wasn't always the case. But usually.

And then there were my folks: technically not divorced, but clearly heading there. After nineteen years together and eighteen years of raising a kid, they'd had enough.

They're basically never talking, and mom's already half moved out, and I'm here in the middle to mediate.

They had to only have one kid too, of course. It would've been nice if they had given me a pal here, but it was just me, my parents, and the shadow of something that once was.

Spooky.

--

Mom's at the house, so dad's gone. Sometimes I wonder if he has a secret second family out there or something. Where else could he be spending this much time?

Honestly, I wouldn't even blame him. He's always been a big family man. Just a lot of dad energy, you know? And we haven't had a successful family dinner in months, so it's not like he's getting a whole lot of that around here.

I had been doing a little bit of aimless walking around the neighborhood, and I don't think mom heard me return. She's on the phone in the kitchen, which was a rarity.

(The closed-door calls in the master bedroom started at around the same time as the mail from divorce lawyers, and she still doesn't think I know anything. She's so funny.)

"The man is a fool," mom says. Wait: this is something I want to hear.

I lean near the door to the kitchen, careful to not make a noise.

"You know I had been suspicious he was having an affair-- Exactly! That's what I'm saying: you must not be a very smart guy if you haven't realized your so-called kid isn't yours for this long-- Well, he'll be single and able to sleep with as many women as he wants soon."

I take it back: I wish I hadn't heard that.

--

She was talking about me, right? I'm the "so-called kid." I mean, obviously.

She was talking about me, so that means my dad... isn't my dad.

No way.

He's got to be my dad. He-- He just has to be. He's always been my dad.

The idea that he's not -- that there were any affairs going on, period -- is utterly insane.

Then the doubts start creeping in. Dad's huge, a real big man. Tall, and pretty buff too. A big beard and a hairy chest that used to make all the other girls giggle nervously.

And I'm... not. I'm barely five feet tall, always on the edge of underweight. Which, of course, means no boy has ever given me a second glance: I've got zero tits and zero ass.

He's got dark hair, almost black unless the lighting's perfect. I'm a brunette too, but more caramel than dark chocolate.

I suppose we have some stuff in common: we have the same sense of humor, all the same mannerisms. But you can learn all that by being around someone enough, right?

So yeah, I clearly take after my mom. She's tiny too, though she's got at least some curves. She swears they came from pregnancy, and that's a funny thought. Anyone as small as the two of us must look hilarious pregnant. Just totally disproportionate.

Hell, I had wished to be just a bit more like my dad many times before. What if that was because... I'm not like him at all?

I don't know what I'm going to do.

--

The more I think about it, the more I realize: what a crappy thing to do to a man.

Shit, my mom conned him for eighteen years. Admittedly, she picked a hell of a guy, so points to her there. But damn.

I have to tell him, I think, and that's going to blow. I hope he still wants to be my dad.

--

Mom and dad have clearly got this separating thing down pat, because mom leaves one morning and dad gets home only a few hours later. Do they, like, have a shared calendar somewhere?

I tell him at dinner that night. It's even harder than I think it's going to be. I stammer out that I didn't mean to overhear this but did, and that she called him a fool, said I wasn't really his.

And he just looks... sad.

He rubs a hand over his face.

"I'm sorry, Sally."

"What?" Why is he apologizing to me?

"I'm sorry you have to be a part of this whole mess."

"Da--" I stop, suddenly unsure if I can still call him that. Now that's a bad thought. "You don't need to be sorry. I'm sorry for you. This seems really bad."

He sighs. "I'll be honest, sweetie: your mom and I are already in the process of separating. I think we've already hurt each other as much as we can. This would've hurt in the past, but now..."

Maybe I've been a bit in denial about it all, because those words kind of hurt. My parents loved each other once.

"Are you-- Are we--" I don't really know what I'm trying to ask, but I need some form of reassurance, I think. I feel like I've lost my mom with this blindsiding news; I can't lose my dad too.

"Oh, Sally," he says, and I look up to see that he's staring at me intently. "Of course. I'm your daddy, and that won't change."

I don't reply, instead offering a small smile. Slowly, I nod. Good.

"Sally, I-- I think we should keep this to ourselves," he adds after a moment.

"Why?"

"It'll just make everything harder. Let me handle this on my own, okay?"

I don't like that at all. I'm angry. I want to be angry, preferably in my mom's general direction. But he's looking imploringly at me, and I trust him so much, so: "Fine."

"Our secret?"

"Yes, daddy."

He smiles at that. "Daddy, huh?"

I like calling him that. "...Is that okay? Me calling you daddy?"

"Of course. You just haven't called me that in a while."

I shrug one shoulder, but I can't hide my own small smile. I'm so happy I have a man like him around. "Like you said... Even if we're not related, you're still my daddy."

"And I always will be."

--

It seems like he's sticking around for a while. I'm not complaining: I don't know if I can look my mom in the eyes right now.

I need clothes for college, so I tell him I'll be out for the day. For once, I get no retort: no demand for check-ins, no questioning about who I'll be with (no one, I swear, I promise, no boys, no one), nothing.

It's uncomfortably freeing, but I'd much rather that than stifling. I feel like this is my chance to show I can really be trusted; I mean, come on, I'm an adult!

"I'll be home around dinner time," I offer. "I have to go to a bunch of stores."

He nods. "Okay, sweetie."

And then, after all that, the shopping trip ends up being a spectacular failure. It turns out the mall's under construction, so most of the places I want to go to are closed for a while.

I consider my options. I could find some open stores, I guess? Make do? I spin around in place, and all I see is a Gap Kids.

Alright, never mind.

I could go elsewhere, I suppose. I've got a car, right? But my mind flashes back to my dad's easy nod: we agreed I'd go to the mall. I don't want to break that promise.

And hell, this town is boring anyway. It's not like there are a ton of other options.

I sigh: clearly this isn't meant to be, and that's a bummer. Another crappy moment amongst the many I'm having this summer.

Whatever. I'll just go home.

--

When I step through the front door, the first thing I hear is rustling. A grunt comes second.

Someone's home?

Instead of being stealthy -- peeking around the corner, maybe? -- I walk straight through to the living room, and I see my dad on the couch, and he's got his pants unzipped, and one hand is stroking his--

Oh.

Fuck.

I freeze. He's clearly caught up in what he's doing, because he thrusts into his palm a few more times before my presence registers.

He looks up and shouts: "Sally?!"

And, I mean, what do you say to that? It's not like you can just drop in a casual "hey, daddy."

Or, well, wait, he's not, so... "Hey, not-daddy."

Either way, can't do that!

I've got other things on my mind anyway. One thing, really.

Daddy's still freaking out on the couch. He's pulled a blanket over himself, but it looks a little funny, because it's tented up so tall in the middle. I think he's still got one hand around his length under there, like his brain short-circuited so hard he forgot to actually stop jerking off.

"I thought you were going to be gone until dinner," he says finally, a little out of breath.

"The mall's under construction," I offer.

"Oh."

It's a weird conversation to have while staring at your dad's cock. Because, to be clear, that's what I'm doing.

I've never actually seen one before, at least not in real life. But my inexperience doesn't mean I'm dumb: I know that what I'm seeing isn't normal.

I only got a glance at it, but that was enough. It looked like daddy's hand could only cover about a third of its length, and daddy has big hands.

It was thick too, widest at the base but flaring out again at the tip, and it curved a bit upward, so that same flared tip was pointing toward his bellybutton. There were several visible veins, but one in particular that ran from base to tip is stuck in my mind.

And it was so pink. Bright and perfectly pink against the paleness of his thighs.

How could mom ever cheat on that cock?

Actually: how did mom ever fit that cock?

And why is my mouth watering?

A bolt of heat strikes my gut, and I unconsciously squeeze my legs together. It only makes my sudden aching worse.

"I need you to--" He takes a deep breath, uncomfortable. "Can you go to your room, sweetie?"

Oh, right. He's got his pants pulled down under there, and even though he's not my dad, he's the man who raised me, and I just saw him jerking off.

I nod almost frantically, run away even faster. What the fuck was that?

--

I see no need to ever acknowledge it again. That'll only be weird, and our family's had enough weird lately.

So, of course, he brings it up at dinner.

"Sally, I-- I need to apologize." He's not even looking at me when he says it.

Maybe I can keep this quick: I shake my head. "Daddy, it's fine."

"It's not fine. What I was doing-- I should have never been doing that where you could see."

"You thought I was out shopping. It's really okay. It's natural, right? We all do it."

That makes him glance up at me. It's that mix of annoyance and amusement that you can only get from a parent. You know, the "I don't like what you said, but okay, it was a little funny" look. A classic.

"Fine. But it still wasn't okay," he says.

"I mean... You're not my real dad," I say with a shrug. Which is fair, right? If he's some random guy, why does it matter if he's hanging around with his cock out?

He keeps looking at me, but he stays silent. It's like it's finally sinking in, that I'm not his daughter.

Since we're clearly not just going to forget this ever happened, the least I can do is make it a funny memory instead of a horrifying one. So I continue: "So if you ever want to do that again, I mean..."

Okay. Maybe that one was too far.

His eyes widen for a beat, and then he scowls.

I have no interest in getting chastised tonight, so I wave my hands in surrender. "Sorry," I say quickly. "Sorry. Bad joke. Just trying to make the best of all this."

Daddy rolls his eyes and sighs, and I consider that a win.

--

The thought sticks, though.

Are you surprised? The most exciting thing I've done so far this summer is get chased by a squirrel while out walking. And now I'm thinking about licking my way up that vein, sucking the tip of my daddy's cock into his mouth, stroking him--

I mean, really: can you blame me?

I've been horny since the incident earlier. It felt wrong earlier to just walk right over to my room and start touching myself, but I can only hold off for so long. Now, with a few hours and our dinner conversation between, I don't feel as bad.

It's not my fault I saw a really nice cock. Doesn't matter who it belongs to.

I slide one hand under the waistband of my pajamas. I'm wet already, which I expect.

I know exactly what I like, and I jump straight to it: I slowly push two fingers into myself, bending them just right. The angle of my hand means my palm is hitting my clit.

I gasp into my pillow, and then I pull my head back.

As I had told daddy earlier: it's natural. Here's my chance to walk the walk, show him that I'm fine with what I saw. Excited, even, by whatever's shifting between us.

So next time I push my fingers deep, I let myself moan. Loudly.

I kick my blanket off of me too, and suddenly I can hear my wetness with each twist of my hand.

I hope daddy's enjoying my little show, because I sure am. I'm close, even closer with each groan I allow myself, and then I'm cumming, shoving my fingers in deep and pushing my palm hard against my clit.

"Mm, fuck!" I cry. I chase the aftershocks until they hurt, and I wipe my hand on my pants.

I expect silence, but that's not what I get. There's rustling, just like earlier.

Could he be--

Then I hear a quiet "oh shit," and I know.

Daddy's jerking off again. Maybe -- probably? -- because of me. It's almost enough to make me want to rub myself again, but then the sound of his stroking gets faster and more frenzied, and I know he's cumming when I hear a low groan.

Finally: silence. Except in my mind, which is racing.

--

I wish I had seen it. Daddy cumming, that is.

I've seen enough to piece together the scene until then. The mere few strokes I saw gave me plenty to work with: he seemed to stroke down with his hand and thrust up with his hips in equal measure, as though he were fucking his palm.

So that's what I picture him doing in bed. Fully naked this time, chest hair glistening, hips raising up and up and up as he works himself toward completion.

But my imagination always stops there. Does he cum all over his own stomach? That would be a mess, seed sticky in his chest hair.

Does his seed spurt high, or does it dribble and puddle and pool? I bet he makes a lot of it. Those balls looked pretty big too.

I take it back. I don't just wish I had seen it. I wish I did it. Made him cum. There wouldn't be any mess then, if I could help daddy and get him to squirt into my mouth or-- Fuck. Into my pussy.

--

Apparently mom stops by the house while I'm on a walk one morning. She's gone by the time I'm back, but I notice a few more things missing: some pictures from the walls, a random whisk, half the plates.

Sure, mom, just take whatever you need! It's not like we're still living here, or anything!

Dad looks tired, hunched over the kitchen table.

"Is everything alright?" I ask.

He shrugs, and then he seems to remember who he's talking to. He nods and sits up straighter. I guess we're still playing this fun game of pretend here, acting like everything's just dandy.

I sit across from him. "Did you know mom was coming?"

"She texted me this morning."

"Why'd you stay home, then?"

He rubs a hand through his beard.

"I know you've never liked conflict," he says. I'm not sure what that has to do with anything, but he's not wrong. "But you can't always avoid tough things, sweetie. Your mom and I have to sort this out, and that means we sometimes have to see and talk to each other."

Fair, I guess. I don't really agree, but I've also never gotten divorced, so I'll give him this one.

I have to ask: "Did you... talk about me?"

"I told you: we're not going to do that."

"How can you not? I wouldn't be able to stay quiet about that if I were you!"

"It's easier this way."

I'm pissed now. I don't even know who I'm pissed at. Probably both of them, for making me deal with this. I leave for college so soon: can't I have one moment of peace?

"Easier for who? Mom? So fucking what?"

"Sally--"

"No! It's bullshit! She strung you along for eighteen years!"

He sighs and looks down, and I'm worried that I pushed too far again. Maybe, I realize, he's avoiding the topic because it's just too painful.

"I loved your mom. So much. It was a new relationship, yes, but when she told me she was pregnant... I was so excited."

All I say is a quiet "oh."

"I had always wanted a family. And I had always liked-- Uh. I liked your mom when she was pregnant."

Something changes in his expression then: it's no longer quite as sad, and his cheeks and ears flush a light pink. That's interesting.

"You liked her pregnant?" I echo.

His blush deepens. Very, very interesting.

I don't want daddy to be sad, now or ever. I'm surprised by how strongly I feel that. He's supposed to protect me, but in this moment, I feel like it's my duty to protect him.

I shouldn't have brought this up, but this new direction gives me a chance to recover.

I smile a little, teasing. "I didn't know that about you, daddy."

That gets me a scowl, but it's a harmless one. Success.

--

We watch a movie the next night, and I hear daddy swallow hard when one of the characters announces she's pregnant.

Clearly he's still thinking about our conversation too.

"What did mom look like when she was pregnant?" I find myself asking. "I don't think I've ever seen a picture."

He chuckles at that. "Yeah, she didn't want to keep any. Said she looked ridiculous."

"Did she?"

"I didn't think so."

I look over at him, but he's studiously watching the screen.

"Most women gain a lot of weight, right?" he continues eventually. "But your mom really didn't. Only her belly got big. She always said she looked like she was about to topple right over."

I giggle. "But you liked her belly?"

He inhales sharply but nods. "I did, yeah."

And I could have left it at that. But that's boring. You know me: I hate boring.

So: "I bet I'd look a lot like her if I got pregnant."

Immediately, his gaze snap onto mine. I realize that his eyes -- widened, currently -- look just like mine: both are a muddy green that seems brown unless you're looking closely. And I'm looking closely.

"I'm small too," I explain, needlessly. "Even smaller, I think. I bet my tummy would look ridiculous too."

I have no idea why, but my hand slides to my flat stomach, like I'm expecting to feel it swell beneath my touch. Daddy's gaze follows it, hungry.

He shifts and spreads his legs a little, and my gaze drops too. My belly's bulge might be imaginary, but the bulge in daddy's pajama pants certainly is not.

"Daddy..." I whisper.