Chapter 2
The storm rolled in like a harbinger of change, with dark clouds gathering swiftly on what had started as a clear late afternoon.
Thunder grumbled in the distance, a low warning that had the animals stirring restlessly in their stalls.
Malachi and I were in the barn, securing everything against the impending fury by tying down tarps over equipment, herding the last of the chickens into their coop, and double-checking the latches on the horse stalls.
The air grew heavy with the scent of upcoming rain only a second before it came down in heavy sheets, pattering on the tin roof. It built to a relentless drumbeat that isolated us from the outside world.
The farmhands had been sent home early at Daddy’s insistence that they head home before the weather turned. Their trucks disappeared down the drive just as the first drops fell.
The isolation amplified the tension that had been simmering between us for weeks with stolen glances across the dinner table, brushes of skin that lingered too long during chores, and the way his eyes darkened when he caught me bending over to pick up a tool.
Now, in the dimming light of the barn, with shadows lengthening and the storm raging, it felt like the universe had conspired to push us together.
I was up on a ladder, stretching to secure a flapping tarp, my muscles aching from the day’s work. A sudden gust of wind shook the entire structure, and I wobbled precariously. Daddy was there in an instant, his powerful hands gripping my calves to steady me.
“Careful up there, Polly,” he growled, his voice rough like gravel, but his touch lingered, his fingers sliding up slightly along my legs before he reluctantly pulled away.
The contact sent a shiver through me that had nothing to do with the cooling air.
I descended the ladder slowly, my pulse thundering louder than the storm outside. We stood face to face in the dim glow of a hanging lantern, hay dust swirling around us like tiny stars.
My father’s shirt was damp from sweat and the gusts of rainwater that blew through the open barn doors. The material clung to his chest and outlined every ridge of muscle. The fabric was translucent enough to hint at the dark hair beneath.
I could smell his scent. It was earth mingled with sweat and a hint of the strong pine soap he used. It made my head spin.
“Thanks,” I whispered, my voice barely audible over the cacophony of rain hammering the roof.
He didn’t step back. Instead, he reached out, his calloused fingers tucking a stray strand of my dark auburn hair behind my ear, his touch sending sparks across my skin.
“You’ve been driving me crazy, Polly. Ever since you came back home this summer. Walking around in those barely-there shorts and looking at me like that… it’s torture.”
The admission hung between us, heavy and charged with suppressed longing. I should have pulled away, reminded him of the boundaries we couldn’t cross. He was my father, for God’s sake. But I stepped closer, my body pressed against his solid frame.
“It’s wrong,” I said, my voice trembling, but my hands betrayed me, fisting in his sweat-soaked shirt.
“Damn right it is,” he replied, his blue eyes darkening with desire. Then his mouth crashed down on mine, a kiss that was all fire and possession, tasting of forbidden promises.
If this was so wrong, why did it feel so right?
Daddy’s hands gripped my waist, lifting me effortlessly onto a nearby stack of hay bales, the prickly straw scratching at my thighs through my shorts.
I wrapped my legs around his waist instinctively, pulling him closer, feeling the hard evidence of his arousal pressing against my pussy through his jeans.
We tore at each other’s clothes with a frantic urgency born of pent-up need. His flannel shirt hit the floor in a matter of seconds, revealing a torso sculpted from decades of relentless farm labor.
He had broad shoulders that tapered to defined abs. There was a smattering of silver and black hair across his chest that trailed down invitingly to the hard V of muscle that disappeared beneath his jeans.
I ran my hands over him, tracing the contours, savoring the heat radiating from his skin. Daddy yanked my tank top over my head in one swift motion, his eyes feasting on my breasts as they spilled over the top of my bra, nipples hardening in the cool air and pressing against the material.
“So damn beautiful,” he murmured, his voice husky, as he unhooked the bra with practiced ease, letting it fall away. “Made perfectly.”
But my father wasn’t one for gentle caresses. He had never been. He was dominant, a force of nature, and expected things to go his way. And hell, I craved that control and power.
He pinned my wrists above my head with one large hand, his grip firm but not painful, while his other hand trailed down my body, teasing my waist, my hip, and then the edge of my shorts.
“Tell me you want this, Polly,” he demanded, his breath hot against my neck as he nipped at the sensitive skin there.
“I want it,” I gasped, arching into him. “Please, Daddy.”
The words slipped out unbidden, taboo and electric, hanging in the air between us like a spark. It ignited something primal in him. His eyes flashed with a mix of shock and raw hunger. “Say it again,” he growled, his fingers dipping beneath the waistband of my shorts.
“Daddy,” I repeated, my voice breathy, the name I hadn’t said since I was a child sending a thrill through both of us.
He shifted me enough so that he could shove my shorts and panties down my legs in one violent motion.
They hung over one ankle, and his fingers found me already slick with arousal when he shoved his hand between my legs and stroked my pussy.
He teased me mercilessly, circling my clit with rough, precise strokes that made my hips buck.
“You’ve been a bad girl, thinking about this, haven’t you? Fantasizing about your father taking you like this?”
I moaned, biting my lip, wanting to lie. But in the end, I told him the truth. “Yes.” I writhed under his touch, the storm outside mirroring the one building within me.
He grunted as if satisfied, maybe even proud, that he’d pulled the truth from me. Daddy released my wrists and spun me and kicked my legs wide apart, exposing my cunt to the cool barn air.
“Mmm, look at this perfect ass and tight little twat. Bet you’re gonna squeeze Daddy’s cock once I’m wedged inside, aren’t you, sweet girl?”
I heard the metallic zip of his jeans behind me. My breath caught when he grabbed a length of baling twine from a nearby hook and used it on me. The coarse fiber rubbed against my skin as he looped it around my wrists behind my back.
“Trust me?” he asked, his voice low and commanding, gauging my reaction.
“Always, Daddy.” The restraint heightened every sensation, making me feel vulnerable yet utterly safe in his dominance. Bound and bent over, I was at his mercy, the position exposing me completely.
His hands gripped my hips with bruising force, and when I felt his cockhead poised at my pussy hole, I braced, held my breath, and thanked whoever listened that this was finally happening.
Daddy entered me in one powerful thrust, filling me to the hilt so I cried out and rose on my toes, causing him to push in another impossible inch. The stretch was exquisite, a mix of pleasure and a hint of pain that made me cry out again.
“Jesus Christ. So tight and wet. I’ve been dreaming about this cunt for the last year. I’ve been jerking off to the images and fantasy of fucking my daughter’s pussy, being a damn degenerate for wanting what was so wrong.”
His filthy words had me nearly coming right there, squeezing his cock until he grunted and started moving in and out.
The storm raged on, thunder clapping as if applauding that a daughter and father were fucking each other like sick fucks.
Daddy pounded into me with a relentless rhythm, each stroke deep and claiming. His hand reached around to rub my clit in tight circles, syncing with his thrusts, pushing me toward the edge.
“You’re mine now, Polly,” he grunted, his breath ragged. “No one else’s. Do you fucking understand what that means?”
I couldn’t answer. I didn’t know how to. His declaration, combined with the forbidden dynamic of our relationship, sent me spiraling. The orgasm crashed over me like a bolt of lightning, my body shuddering, my pussy walls clenching around him.
Daddy followed moments later, pulling out to spill hotly on my back and ass. I looked over my shoulder to see hot jets of white cum splatter on my skin. He gave several guttural moans that echoed in the barn. But he wasn’t done.
His fingers scooped up his jizz, spreading it over my skin in slow, deliberate circles, marking me further. He smeared me with his seed, painting me, before shoving the digits back into my pussy and finger-fucking me for several long seconds.
“Look at you, covered in me,” he murmured, his voice thick with possession.
I shivered as he pulled his cum and pussy-juice fingers out of my cunt and brought them to my lips. I parted them obediently, tasting the salty and musky essence, the act deepening our kink, binding us in shared taboo.
We collapsed together onto the hay, breathing hard, the rain now a steady lullaby. He untied me gently, his fingers tracing my arm until goosebumps formed on my skin. He pulled me into his arms, and I closed my eyes. God, this felt so good.
“This changes everything,” he whispered, his voice softening as he kissed my forehead.
I knew it did, but in that post-storm haze, wrapped in his warmth, I didn’t care about the consequences.