Who's Your Daddy

He shakes his head, so I try again: "Daddy, please."

I slowly reach out my hand. He doesn't stop me -- and he could, he absolutely could: he could bat me away, or move, or yell, and he doesn't -- so I let my palm land right on his length.

"Sally, we can't," he groans.

"Why not?"

"Sally. You know why."

I squeeze a little, and he slams his eyes shut.

"You're not my real dad," I say. I begin to rub him through his pajamas, and I'm aching at how thick he feels, how little of him I can grasp.

"So what's wrong..." Stroke. "With me..." Stroke. "Helping you out? After all, it's my fault you're so hard. I'm the one who started talking about what I'd look like with a big, round belly."

He moans, and the end trails off into a near-growl. There's a long moment of silence, and then he moves.

He lifts his hips up and pushes his pajamas and boxers down in one motion, letting his length slap up against his shirt. His head tips back against the couch cushions, and his eyes stay closed, and I get the message: yes, but don't expect me to watch.

That's fine with me.

I was right: my hand barely fits around half of his girth. His cock is so soft yet so firm as I stroke it, and I'm surprised by the drip of wetness I feel when my thumb slides across the slit.

"Baby," he groans.

"It's okay, daddy."

"Harder, baby." Oh, alright: I guess he wasn't trying to stop me.

I obey his command -- I've always obeyed my daddy, always been such a rule follower -- and grip him harder. I stroke faster, and he starts thrusting his hips up too just like I saw him doing the other day.

He's fucking my hand. It's not what I really want him to fuck, but you've got to start somewhere.

I'm fixated on him. It's everything I imagined and more, with his chest heaving as he gasps between breaths, hips pushing upward to chase his release.

I have the best not-daddy in the world.

"I'm gonna--"

I act on instinct, lowering my head and taking just the tip of him into my mouth. Even that hurts my jaw a little, being open that wide.

My tongue against his slit is what pushes him over the edge. He pushes up into me, and several more inches of his cock slide into my mouth before I can jerk back. It's too much already, and my eyes are watering, and then I feel him spurting, cum spilling from him faster than I can swallow it.

It drips down my jaw and I cough as I pull back, even though he's still cumming. But it's a trickle now, streaming down his length and onto my hand.

I'm sure I look like quite a mess, seed smeared across my face, eyes wet, panting.

I don't know when he opened his eyes, but he's staring at me in horror.

Uh... Was that not a good orgasm for him? It sure seemed like one.

"Sweetie, Sally, Sally, I--" he's reaching toward me, pushing me back to where I was seated next to him. "I shouldn't have-- We can't-- Baby, I'm so sorry."

I make a point to lick my hand before I speak, and I'm glad to see him shudder as I swallow more of his cum. "Why, daddy? That was a lot of fun."

He narrows his eyes at me. "Sally, we don't-- I don't know why you're saying that. I don't know what's happening. I know you're mad at your mom, but you don't need to do this."

I mean, yeah, I'm mad at my mom, but does he really think I'm trying to get back at her by, uh, secretly jerking off her ex and never telling her? Seriously?

But as dumb as the thought is, daddy's obviously worried about it. Worried about me, I guess, so I have to convince him otherwise.

"I'm not... That's not what I'm doing!" I sound petulant even to my own ears, which is not what I'm going for, so I sigh and try again.

"I'm not trying to get back at mom. I promise. I love you, daddy. And now that I know you're not my real daddy, well-- I think I just love you in a different sort of way."

He reaches out, wipes his thumb across my jaw. Cleaning up the remnants of his seed, I suppose. It's a gentle gesture that makes me shiver.

"Are you sure?"

"I'm positive," I say.

He pauses again, then: "You really liked that?"

I giggle: isn't it obvious? "I liked it a lot."

"I liked it too," he says, and I'm proud of him for admitting it even if I already knew.

"Good, because your cum was yummy, and I'm going to want some more."

He chuckles quietly and nods, disbelieving. "We'll see."

--

I find the scrapbook over the weekend.

I need to start packing, so I'm looking for an old duffel bag in the attic. I don't come up here a lot -- mostly because it's all dusty and cobweb-y and smells a little gross -- so I'm surprised to see so much of mom's stuff still here.

I would have taken all that first, if I were her. You know, hang onto the memories before you carry out a stack of dinner plates? Different strokes, I guess.

I don't dig or anything. I'm not, like, actively trying to pry. That would be weird. I just open the top box to see what stuff she's left behind, is all.

There are two photo frames. One is our family -- me, mom, dad, looking happy like I remember us all being, and it's uncomfortable, so I set it back face down -- and one is of mom and her parents.

Next to the photos is the scrapbook, and I'm drawn to it immediately.

See, I've never really felt like my mom and I got each other. Overhearing her on the phone obviously didn't help matters. But, well, she's my mom. And I know mothers and daughters are supposed to fight, but they're also supposed to talk and hug after it all. Why couldn't we?

I think the scrapbook will help me understand her, so I quietly slip it into the duffel bag and take it to my room.

--

I ignore it for a few days. It feels forbidden, that glance at my mom's past.

Then curiosity wins out.

I really do look like her, I realize first, though there's something different about her that I can't put my finger on. We're similar even down to the way we stand, arms always crossed, folding ourselves in a little bit. It's a little eerie, like I've been photoshopped into these vintage photos or something.

The scrapbook seems to go through most of college, and I'm intrigued: she had me when she was 22. Maybe my dad is actually in here somewhere.

I flip the pages faster, making note of any men I see and the names and dates scribbled beneath them.

By the end, there are three of note.

Matt. Andrew. And daddy.

--

The scrapbook obviously doesn't give me the answer.

What, did you think I was going to say there was a sonogram in there or some shit?

But that doesn't stop me from coming up with a story of my own. I'm thinking about it constantly, refining it.

It's even on my mind as I try to fall asleep each night. I imagine the whole thing, what she experienced with each of the men, until pressing my thighs together is useless and I have to slip my hand downward and rub myself until I cum.

--

According to the scrapbook, she knew Matt first.

He was a scrawny guy. Around average height, meaning he still towered over mom. They're hugging or touching in a lot of pictures, so I decide they were dating.

In my mind, he was a pretty bad lay. He seems like he'd be a little awkward. Bony, too, probably, and that doesn't seem like it would be a lot of fun.

I bet mom wanted to like him really bad, but she just couldn't. Every time he'd kiss her, pull her into him hard enough that his intentions were clear, she'd find herself holding back a sigh.

He never did anything untoward, of course: she liked Matt as a person enough to want to keep trying. She wanted to make him feel good.

But each time he'd rush through things it a bit because he could never last, so mom would quickly have his cock sliding up between her thighs.

It wasn't too small, I figure, because he was clearly in her life for a while, but it wasn't big enough to stretch her at all. Again: it should have been the perfect fit, but something was just off.

He seems like the kind of guy who wanted to stare into her eyes as he thrust, grunting each time, until he'd sputter and stop and push as far into her as he could. They always used a condom.

I bet mom never came with Matt.

--

Andrew only appears a few times, I notice, and only after Matt's gone.

I assume mom's the one to end things with Matt. Sometimes you just know who's the dumper and who's the dumpee.

Andrew looks like a bit of an ass, always wearing this backwards baseball cap that didn't really fit his head and made his curls stick out from the sides. I bet he thought he was really cool.

Andrew's clear rebound material, which means he was a good fuck. And thank god, because mom definitely needed a good orgasm by this point.

She clearly hasn't had one recently, as an aside. Huh, maybe that's why she is the way she is.

Anyway, I think Andrew had a pretty nice cock. See, she kept him around. Not for long, but long enough: rebounds stay out of scrapbooks unless they're good. That said, there's a photo of my mom and Andrew at a beach, and I can't spot much of a bulge under those trunks.

Ehh, that's okay: he could be average -- short, even -- with the girth to make up for it.

I bet mom didn't make him use a condom. She just dumped someone safe, after all. She's a new woman. A cool one.

I bet he was rough. Matt was all missionary and loving stares, so Andrew would be the opposite.

He'd always want to her from behind, for sure. Mom would be on all fours, lip bit between her teeth in preparation for the pounding she was about to receive.

But Andrew's not a bad guy here, so he surprised her: rather than his cock, mom first felt his mouth. He would hold her folds open with one hand as his tongue teased her clit again and again until she dropped her head onto the bed.

"Is that good?" he'd murmur against her, and she'd moan a quiet "mhmm, 'm close."

He'd double down, thrust his tongue up into her and use his thumb now to swipe across her clit until she was crying out, dripping onto his mouth and jaw.

Then he'd stuff his cock into her in one long stroke. Bit of an ass, remember.

She'd choke on her spit -- Andrew was so much thicker than Matt -- and never quite manage to fully manage to catch her breath, because he liked to thrust into her fast and hard. Fill her up, pull out so just the tip was in her, and shove his whole length in once again.

He didn't ask before cumming in her. What sort of woman was unprotected? He just poked in deep and curled his toes as his climax overtook him.

Did mom even realize what was happening? I haven't decided.

They did this for a month or two, it looks like, so who knows when his sperm took.

Oh, yeah. That's what I think: Andrew's my dad.

Honestly, I can't give you much evidence. We don't look a lot alike. But the timing works, and we don't not look alike either, so... It's my best guess.

I hope it was that very first time that she caught. That would be hot: bred when she least expected it. Body still used to Matt's safety and boom, here's a thick cock to spread you wide and put a baby in you.

Then he leaves, dumps her, whatever, before either of them even knew he had bred her good. Would he have stuck around if he did? I think so.

But Andrew and mom weren't aware that her tummy was about to start growing, so it didn't matter.

--

Finally, daddy.

I know the story: they were casually seeing each other, both really into the other but unwilling to voice that sort of interest first, when mom learned she was pregnant. They decided to commit, were really happy together, blah, blah. The version they always told me ends there, so I mentally add in the rest of it. The ugly parts.

And I know what daddy's cock looks like. I'm obsessed with it. But I can't imagine what it felt like for mom.

I bet she wasn't even trying to find a guy. After an unsuccessful rebound, she was probably burnt out. Then she met daddy at a bar, or in class, or something. I had never asked.

Daddy looked good back then. He had a beard, but it was shorter. His hair was shorter too, and he obviously put a lot of effort into maintaining its neat coif.

I realize then what's been bugging me: in all these college pictures, my mom has curly hair. Usually more wavy, sometimes outright curly, depending on how she styled it, but clearly not straight. That's what seems different about her.

Did she start straightening it after college? I never knew.

I run my fingers through my own hair. It's pin-straight, much more like daddy's hair in the photos. That's ironic.

Anyway, mom met dad, and I think all the hormones pumping through her made her extra horny. That's probably it.

Before Matt, before Andrew, mom would have never jumped into bed with a guy that fast. She was better than that! But after? She figured she might as well: if daddy was just another guy that would be in her life temporarily, she might as well get a good fuck out of it.

And yeah, it would be good.

She would want to sit on his cock. She'd want to control it. Mom's always been controlling.

I'm not even sure a condom would fit over his length; if they tried, it probably broke.

Either way, mom eventually managed to sink herself down, folds spread wide as he bottomed out in her pussy. She had never felt so full.

She would do the work, lifting up, slamming down, until she felt wet heat within her.

He wasn't the first guy to squirt in mom's pussy, but the sheer amount of cum was startling still.

Mom was so tiny, so even a small bulge was obvious on her frame. She would realize she was knocked up soon.

Given just how much cum I bet daddy was dumping into her on the regular, she might have genuinely believed that he's the one who did it.

I don't know when she found out the truth.

She told daddy she was pregnant, and the rest is history.

--

This is always when I get the most horny. I can think about Matt and Andrew and feel a little warm, sure. Especially when I think about Andrew's cum flooding into my mom's womb.

I can hold out, though, until I think about daddy.

He didn't know he was fucking a woman carrying another man's baby. Each time his hands caressed her curves, he thought he did that. His cock, his seed.

I always end up thinking about how much he squirted into my mouth. Fuck, daddy makes so much cum.

So that night, that's about when I start to slide my hand down. I'm more wet than usual, and sensitive, too. I feel like this between periods sometimes, but I'm too lazy to think back and remember when the last one ended.

I whimper, high pitched and needy. Since that first night daddy and I masturbated in our rooms, I've never been quiet again.

I'm too wrapped up in the feeling of my fingers in my pussy to hear the footsteps, but I sure do hear the door. I stop, but I don't move my hand.

Daddy's standing there in just bulging pajama pants.

He takes me in, lets his gaze pan slowly from my face down where my thumb is still slowly circling my clit.

This is the first time since we started all this that he's seeing my pussy. I wonder if he thinks it's pretty.

"Come here, Sally," he growls, but he comes to me. He grabs my ankles and tugs, pulls me so my ass is on the edge of the bed, and he yanks my pajama pants the rest of the way down and tosses them onto the floor.

Daddy kneels before me and spreads my legs, and he's staring right at my folds now. I'm gripping my sheets with both hands, hard.

He's gentle for about half a second: he nudges my folds open with his nose. Then he's not. He immediately sucks hard on my clit, and my back arches as I push my hips up. He chuckles -- the vibration feels wonderful against me -- and grabs my hips with his hands, pushing them down.

"Daddy," I whine.

"You've got to stay still, sweetie," he replies, licking me softly after every other word. He looks up fully when he continues: "Be a good girl for me."

I will, I will, I will.

He switches to holding me down with one arm pressed across my hips so that the other hand can reach down to my pussy. He slides into me with one finger, and it feels like almost three of my own. He pushes in another, and I gasp.

"Daddy wants to taste your cum, baby."

Fuck, I can't say no to that.

It doesn't take many more thrusts of his fingers or swipes of his tongue for me to break. I feel myself flooding his lips, and he licks me through each pulse until I'm limp.

"Wow, daddy," I manage.

He stands and wipes his mouth. He's still rock hard. I start to sit and reach for it, and he shakes his head.

"Not tonight," he says.

"Why not?"

"You should go to bed."

"Your cock is so big right now. Doesn't it hurt?" I really believe it has to hurt. He's been so good to me, making sure I cum. I want to help him.

"It's okay. I'll handle it myself." In any other situation, that would have been an extremely enjoyable image.

Now, though? It's not enough.

"I want your cock, daddy. Please?"

He's still here, so I know he's tempted. I add, "It'll feel really good, daddy. You know it will. Your big cock will fill me up. You made me feel so good, so I want you to feel good too."

He closes his eyes and repeats his words: "Not tonight."

I sigh and let my head drop back against the bed. I don't want to stare at his cock unless I can have it.

He leaves without another word.

But Daddy said "not tonight." That's important. He didn't say no.

--

I can always tell when daddy's been drinking. It's not that he'd ever come home actually drunk -- he's too good of a man for that -- but he gets kind of loose, or something.

It's like he usually puts a lot of effort into standing tall, looking stern but kind, and when even a little alcohol hits him, that goes away. His shoulders slump, and he honestly looks a lot older. Tired, too.

I don't like seeing him like that at all.

Two nights later, he's out late, so I have a suspicion that tonight is one of the nights I'll see daddy all tipsy and sad. I decide to go to bed early and avoid the whole thing: I don't know how to combine sad daddy with the new daddy I've gotten lately.

My shower handle is loose, and I really don't want to deal with that right now either. Since nobody else is home, I figure I'll take a quick shower in the master bathroom then be safely hidden by the time he's back.

Spoiler alert: it doesn't work.

The doorknob starts wiggling just as I've gotten out of the shower and wrapped myself in a towel. Daddy's clearly confused as to why the door's locked, and I hear him mumble a quiet "what the--"

"Daddy!" I basically squeak.

"Sally?"

I unlock the door and swing it open, forgetting for a moment that I've got only a small towel wrapped around me. I mean, it's not like there's much he hasn't seen. His eyes widen a bit anyway; they're a little glassy as he gives my body a long glance.

"Sorry," I stammer. "My shower's been acting weird. I thought I'd be done before you got home."

"It's fine, I..." He seems distracted, but he clearly isn't that drunk, so I'm confused. "I just-- I need to be alone in here."

Weird way of saying he needs to pee, but obviously it's fine. It's his bathroom, after all.

Then my gaze drops for a split second, and oh. He doesn't need to pee, probably couldn't even manage to do so. Because his cock looks rock fucking hard in those pants, bulging so big that the zipper's visible.

He needs to jerk off.

He takes a sharp breath, and I know he knows what I'm staring at.

"Sally--" His voice catches.

I'm staring at my daddy's crotch. Not-daddy's crotch. Whatever.

Once again, I'm happy -- hell, let's go with elated -- that the man before me isn't my real dad.

I take a step back, and I lift the bottom of the towel a bit as I do. Not enough to show anything, but enough to make the implication clear. Clearer than I've already made it, and I've made it pretty damn clear these past few days: I want his cock wherever he's willing to put it.