When I Turned Eighteen, He Loved Me More #4
I worked the spot—the tip of my tongue tracing circles over that thin stretch of skin, pressing, flicking, learning the pressure that made his cock twitch and the lighter touch that made his breathing stop.
His hand in my hair had gone from resting to gripping, and I could feel the pull—not pushing me down, pulling me closer.
“Nora. Stop. I need to—if you don’t stop, I’m going to—”
I pulled my lips off and looked up at him. His face was flushed, his lips parted, his chest rising and falling fast. His cock stood between us, slick and hard, gleaming with my spit from crown to base.
“Lie down, Daddy.”
He lay down on the bed. His own bed, hospital corners now ruined, and I stood and reached behind my neck and unclasped the dress.
The fabric slid down my body—over my breasts, my stomach, my hips—and pooled around my feet.
I unhooked my bra. My breasts fell free—full, the nipples already tight, the cool air raising the skin into goosebumps.
I hooked my thumbs into my underwear and peeled them down, and the gusset stuck to my cunt—warm, damp, clinging to the folds of my swollen lips with a quiet, wet sound that we both heard in the silence of the room.
I held them up. Turned them inside out.
“Do you see the stain, Dad?”
“Yes.”
I climbed onto the bed, cocked my leg, moved slowly, and straddled him.
I smiled.
“Do you like what you see, Daddy?”
“Yes.”
“I trimmed it for today. For you. I want you to fuck it hard and over and over, and I want you to cum inside me until it dribbles down my thighs.”
“Jesus, Nora.”
“I want to sleep with your seed planted inside me, Daddy—in my womb.”
I stared at him.
“I want that too, Nora.”
“I know. Mom was right.”
His cock pressed against the slick crease between my thighs, and I rocked once, coating him—spreading my arousal along his shaft, the heat of his cock sliding between my swollen lips, the head bumping my aching clit on the forward stroke.
A sound came out of me that I didn’t recognize.
Deep. Low. An animal sound from a place I hadn’t known I had.
Kane’s hands found my hips. His thumbs settled into the divots above my ass. He positioned me—patient, precise, an architect setting a keystone—tilting my pelvis until the angle was right.
I reached down and took his cock in my hand and guided him to my entrance.
His crown pressed against my throbbing hole.
The head was wide and smooth and wet, and I felt the rim drag against the inside of my lips as I lowered myself onto him.
My cunt opened before he pushed—my body deciding before my brain could catch up, the muscle and the flesh parting for him, choosing him—in the attic, at the restaurant, every day since my mother left and it was just the two of us in this house.
I sank down my father’s cock.
The head spread me open—slow, thick, his rim stretching my entrance, and the burn was sharp and sweet and structural, the kind that tells your body this is real, this is happening, this is the shape your life is going to take.
My walls gripped and yielded and gripped again, my cunt clamping around his girth as he pressed deeper, taking me inch by inch.
I felt every ridge. Every vein. The skin of his shaft dragging against nerve endings I hadn’t known I had, lighting them up in sequence, like a building at night—one floor, then the next, then the next—until I was full. Until the whole building was blazing.
“That’s it, Dad. You just tore the girl out of me.”
“You’re gripping me so tight I can’t move.”
“I haven’t taken it all.”
I breathed and bore down, letting my weight do what my muscles wouldn’t—releasing him deeper, another inch, the burn flaring and settling, flaring and settling, my cunt learning his shape the way a hand learns a tool it’s going to hold for the rest of its life.
His hips met mine.
“You are all the way inside me.”
“I can feel it.”
“My cervix?”
“Yes.”
“You are the first and only man who will feel that.”
My father’s cock pressed against the deepest part of me, and the pressure was a language—not pain, not pleasure, the place where they meet and become something that doesn’t have a name.
My hands were flat on his chest. His heart was slamming under my palms, and mine was slamming against his, and the two rhythms weren’t the same, but they were trying.
“Daddy.”
“I’m here.”
“I know.”
“What is it?”
“Time to fuck your baby girl and fill her with your cum.”
I started to move.
Slowly at first. Lifting my hips until only his head remained inside me—the rim catching at my entrance, the stretch as my lips gripped the widest part of his crown—then sinking back down in one long, fluid stroke that drove him deep and forced the air out of both of us.
The wet sound of his cock fucking my cunt filled the room—slick, rhythmic, the evidence of how soaked I was, how ready my body had been before I’d even touched him.
I rode him.
I rode my stepfather’s cock on his own bed in the house he’d built our life inside, and every stroke drove him deeper inside me, and every time he hit the end of me, the pressure bloomed outward through my pelvis and up my spine and into my chest, and I thought: this is what Mom was afraid of.
This is what drove her out. Not that it was wrong. That it was inevitable.
Kane’s hands tightened around my hips. He started to meet my rhythm—fucking me by lifting his hips on my downstroke, driving up into me as I came down, and the impact doubled, his cock hammering the deepest part of me with a force that made my vision blur and my cunt grip him so hard he groaned.
“Nora—God, Nora—”
“Don’t stop.”
He didn’t stop.
He sat up—one fluid motion, his core engaging, his arms wrapping around my back—and we were face to face.
His forehead against mine. His breath against my lips.
His cock still balls deep inside me, and I was in his lap—a thousand times as a child, and now this—except now his cock was inside me and his hands were on my back and his mouth found mine and he kissed me while I rode him.
The orgasm built slowly. It started in my clit—the base of his cock grinding against the swollen bud on every downstroke—and the pleasure spread through my cunt in widening pulses that clenched his shaft and released and clenched again, tighter each time.
My thighs trembled. My breath came in short, torn pulls.
I pressed my face into his neck and breathed him in—cologne and sweat and the warm musk of sex and underneath everything, the smell of home.
“I’m going to cum. Kane—Daddy—”
The word hit us both. It hit him in how his cock swelled inside me, and it hit me in how my cunt gripped him when I said it, and the word was a key that opened the last door, and behind the door was everything we’d been pretending wasn’t there.
I came.
The orgasm tore through me—a deep, convulsive clench that started in my cunt and radiated outward through my stomach, my chest, my throat.
I cried out against his neck, my teeth finding the muscle where his shoulder began, and I bit down, and my cunt spasmed around his cock in hard, rhythmic contractions that milked his shaft from entrance to cervix.
Kane’s arms crushed me against his chest. His hips drove up once, twice, and on the third stroke, he buried himself to the root, and I felt him cum.
The first pulse was a hot jet hitting the deepest part of me.
I felt it spread—warm, thick, filling a space I hadn’t known was empty.
His cock throbbed between my walls, each spasm pumping more of his seed into me, and I could feel it pooling where his head met my cervix—warm, viscous, the evidence of seventeen years of restraint let go in a single act.
I clenched around him and held, milking my father’s cock, and his cum leaked around the seal of my cunt and ran down the inside of my thigh and onto the sheets.
He held me.
When the trembling stopped, and the breathing slowed, and his cock was still inside me, softening, and my cunt was full of him, and the room was quiet except for two heartbeats still trying to find the same rhythm.
My father held me. The same arms. The same hands. The same man who had carried me through the ER and sat with me through the fever and sung me lullabies in a voice that made me believe the moon cared.
“Happy birthday, Nora.”
“The best gift ever, Daddy.”
I rested my head on his chest and listened to his heart.
It sounded like coming home.