The first thing I register is the sound of my bedroom door creaking open. Then, a heavy hand lands on my shoulder, shaking me gently.
“Ella. Time to get up, kid. We’ve got a long drive ahead.”
I groan, burying my face deeper into my pillow. The soft warmth of my bed is a sanctuary, and the idea of leaving it feels like a crime. But Dad doesn’t relent.
“Come on, up and at ’em. We’re burning daylight.”
I crack one eye open. His face is way too awake for this ungodly hour—stubble shadowing his jaw, hair sticking up in random directions, but his eyes are bright and annoyingly alert.
“Dad, it’s still dark out,” I mumble, voice thick with sleep.
“Exactly. Best time to hit the road.”
With another groan, I drag myself upright, rubbing my eyes. The air is cool against my bare arms, and I shiver, suddenly aware of how much I don’t want to move. But Dad’s already heading out, tossing over his shoulder, “Shower’s free. Be ready in thirty.”
6:10 AM – The Shower
The bathroom tiles are cold under my feet as I stumble inside, stripping off my pajamas. The mirror’s fogged from Dad’s shower, and the air is thick with steam and the scent of his cheap, pine-scented body wash.
I turn the water as hot as I can stand, letting it pound against my back, loosening the last threads of sleep. The heat soaks into my muscles, and for a second, I just stand there, eyes closed, pretending I’m not about to spend the next eight hours in a car.
Washing up is quick—shampoo, conditioner, body wash. The routine is automatic, but my brain’s still sluggish. By the time I step out, towel wrapped around me, my skin is pink from the heat.
6:25 AM – Getting Dressed
Back in my room, I dig through my bag, pulling out a pair of black leggings and an oversized hoodie. Comfort is key for long drives. Underwear is an afterthought—I grab the first thing from my drawer, a thin red lace pair, barely thinking about it before tugging them on.
Socks. Shoes. Hair thrown into a messy bun. Minimal makeup—just enough to feel human.
6:35 AM – Coffee
The kitchen smells like cheap instant coffee and toast. Dad’s already at the counter, shoveling a buttered slice into his mouth while scrolling on his phone.
“Coffee’s there,” he says, nodding to the mug steaming beside the kettle.
I take it black, no sugar. The first sip is bitter and perfect, jolting me awake better than any shower could.
“You pack everything?” Dad asks, wiping crumbs from his mouth.
“Yeah, yeah. Double-checked last night.”
“Good. Let’s hit it.”
6:45 AM – The Car
The trunk’s already packed—tent, sleeping bags, cooler, duffels. Dad’s old SUV smells like leather and the faintest hint of gasoline. I toss my backpack into the backseat and slide into the passenger side, buckling in as Dad starts the engine.
“You got the aux cord?” I ask.
He side-eyes me. “You’re not playing your weird indie stuff the whole ride.”
“It’s not weird. It’s vibes.”
He grunts, but hands over the cord anyway.
7:00 AM – The Drive
The highway stretches ahead, endless and grey in the early morning light. I lean my head against the window, watching the world blur past—trees, exit signs, the occasional truck rumbling by.
Dad’s quiet for the first hour focused on the road. I alternate between scrolling on my phone and dozing off, the hum of the engine lulling me into a half-sleep.
By noon, we’d stopped twice—once for gas, once for burgers at a roadside diner that smelled like grease and old coffee. The fries were good, though.
The landscape changes as we get further from the city—less concrete, more open fields, then dense forests as we climb into the mountains. The air through the cracked window smells different out here—cleaner, sharper.
5:30 PM – Arrival
The campsite is tucked deep in the woods, a small clearing with a fire pit and a view of the lake. The sun’s starting to dip, painting the sky in oranges and pinks.
Dad hops out, stretching his back with a groan. “Alright, let’s set up before it gets dark.”
I help him unload, unfolding the tent poles while he stakes the corners. It’s routine—we’ve done this a dozen times before. But as we finish, Dad frowns, patting the pile of gear.
“Shit.”
“What?”
“I only grabbed one sleeping bag.”
I freeze. “You’re joking.”
He runs a hand through his hair, looking genuinely annoyed with himself. “Must’ve left the other one in the garage. Damn it.”
I stare at him. “So… what, we share?”
He grimaces. “Unless you want to sleep on the bare tent floor.”
Nightfall – The Reality
Okay, so here we are—me in a pair of thin, red lace panties and a short t-shirt, and my dad in his boxers, crammed into a sleeping bag meant for one. What could possibly go wrong, right? It’s not exactly how I envisioned this father-daughter camping trip, but here we are. Life’s full of surprises, and this one feels particularly awkward.
The sleeping bag is basically a straightjacket at this point. I’m curled up on my side, trying to ignore the way my spine is protesting this weird position. My dad’s on the other side, and even though we’re both trying to avoid touching each other, it’s impossible. Every time he moves, I feel it. Every time I breathe, I’m acutely aware of how close we are. This is… not ideal.
“Can’t believe I didn’t grab the other sleeping bag,” Dad mutters, his voice heavy with self-reproach. “I’m such a damn forgetful old man.”
I sigh, trying to keep my voice light. “It’s alright, Dad. A bit cramped, yeah, but it’s fine. And you’re not old. Just… experienced. And, uh, your legs are freezing, by the way.”
He chuckles a little, but it’s not his usual warm, hearty laugh. It’s smaller and more self-conscious. “Yeah, well, they’re not getting any warmer jammed against your backside. Sorry.”
I wriggle a little, trying to get comfortable, but there’s no escaping the fact that we’re pressed together. “Just… try to keep them still, okay?” I say, my voice sharper than I intended. This is ridiculous. A grown woman and her dad sharing a sleeping bag because of a packing mishap? It’s the kind of thing that’ll be hilarious later, but right now? It’s just… uncomfortable. On every level.
I take a deep breath and turn to face him. “Dad… why not just roll on your side and cuddle up like we used to when I was a kid?”
He blinks, hesitating for a moment. “Are… are you sure?”
I nod, trying to sound casual despite the knot in my stomach. “Yeah, it’s fine. I mean, it’s not like we haven’t done this before, right?”
He slowly shifts, turning to face me, and now we’re even closer. His arm wraps around me, pulling me into a spooning position, and I can feel the warmth of his chest against my back. His hand brushes accidentally under my boob, and I inhale sharply, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He just rests his hand there, casual as can be, right under the curve of my breast.
I bite my lip, trying to ignore the heat spreading through my body. Is it wrong to feel this way? I mean, it’s just a physical reaction, right? It’s not like I actually find my dad attractive. It’s just… the closeness. The feeling of skin against skin. Primal. Instinctual. But still, there’s this nagging sense of guilt. I’m curled up in a sleeping bag with my dad, his hand resting just under my breast, and here I am, noticing how good it feels. Is this wrong? It feels wrong. But maybe it’s not? Maybe it’s just… human?
And then, as I shift to get comfortable, my bum presses against his crotch. He lets out a little groan, and I freeze. “Ahh,” he says, his voice low and strained.
“Sorry, Dad,” I say quickly, trying to squirm away. “I was just… trying to get comfy.”
“No, no worries,” he says quickly, his voice tight, a little too high-pitched. “Just… uh… leg cramp. Yeah, leg cramp.”
Leg cramp? In his… groin? Right against my backside? My mind races, trying to make sense of it, but a cold dread is creeping up my spine. “Oh,” is all I manage, the word barely a whisper. My cheeks are burning, and suddenly the thin t-shirt and lace panties feel like I’m standing naked in Times Square.
I try again to shift, to create some space, any space, between us. But the sleeping bag is still a straightjacket, and every movement just seems to make things worse. I can feel the solid ridge of… something… pressing into me through the thin fabric of my t-shirt and his boxers. It’s undeniable now, the reality of what’s happening. My dad. Aroused. Against me. He felt, well big.
My breath hitches in my throat. Leg cramp. Right. And monkeys might fly out of my… well, you get the picture. The air in the sleeping bag suddenly feels thick, suffocating. My skin is prickling all over, a weird mix of heat and cold. It’s like my body is screaming while my brain is still stuck in denial.
“Um… Dad?” My voice comes out small, fragile. I hate how weak I sound. I should be strong, and assertive. I should tell him to move, to get away, to… to what? To make this nightmare stop.
“Yeah?” His voice is still strained, tight. Definitely not leg cramp voice. Leg cramp voice is usually filled with groans of real pain, not this… this choked tension.
“Is your… is your leg… okay?” Smooth move, Ella. Real smooth. Like I’m asking about the weather.
“Yeah, yeah, fine. Just… passing.” He coughs a dry, awkward sound. “Just need to… shift a bit.”
He shifted, but not away. Instead, he seemed to burrow deeper, his arm tightening around me, pulling me even closer against him. The ‘leg cramp’ as he called it but to me I called it a raging hard-on pressed harder into my backside. Through the thin layers, I could feel the heat radiating off him, a different kind of heat than just body warmth. It felt… feverish, unnatural. I felt the long shaft resting against my ass crack.
I was curious so I slowly wriggled my bottom and pushed against him tighter. He moaned more and I wriggled more.
“You ok dad,” I said still facing away from him.
“Fine, yeah, never better,” he choked out, the words strained and unbelievable. “Just uh… shifting, yeah, just shifting… into a more comfortable position. You know how it is when you get… a… a cramp.” His voice was doing this weird jumpy thing, like a broken record skipping.
I kept my back to him, pretending to buy it. “Right, cramps. Horrible things, cramps are.” I wanted to laugh, but it was a nervous, brittle laugh that would crack the fragile pretence we were both clinging to. So I kept it locked down, forcing my voice to stay even. “Maybe you need to stretch it out? You know, rotate your leg? Or… maybe rub it?” Oh god, why did I say ‘rub it’? My cheeks were burning hotter now, and I could feel his… his problem shifting against me in response to my words. So I wriggled more, let’s see what he does as I keep on doing it and not stopping.
He groaned again, a deeper, raspier sound this time, and shifted his hips slightly, pressing that hard ridge even more firmly against me. It wasn’t accidental anymore. It was deliberate. A shiver ran down my spine, not entirely unpleasant, but deeply, deeply wrong.
His hand, still resting just under my breast, tightened slightly. I pressed and wriggled more against his erection.
His breath hitched again, shorter this time, and I could feel his heart hammering against my back. It was contagious; my own heart started to pound in response, a frantic drumbeat against my ribs. His hand moved, just a fraction, but enough to slide his fingers up a little higher, now resting fully and possessively on the underside of my breast.
My heart raced as I continued to press my ass against him as he whimpered. Now not sure why I did this but I moved his hand from under my boobs and place it on my breast.
He groaned softly, a sound that vibrated against my back, and his hand became bolder. He cupped my breast, his thumb brushing across my nipple, sending shivers down my spine. He squeezed gently, experimentally.
With a subtle shift, I managed to discreetly slide my hand down under the elastic of my panties. The thin lace offered little resistance, and I pushed them lower, bunching them at my thigh. The cool air on my suddenly exposed skin was a sharp contrast to the burning heat building between my legs.
Taking a deep breath, I reached behind me, my fingers fumbling for the waistband of his boxers through the layers of sleeping bag. I found the edge, pulled it down slightly, just enough to gain access. My fingers brushed something warm and firm, and I recoiled for a split second, the reality of what I was doing crashing over me. But the heat between my legs was insistent, demanding.
Driven by a force I couldn’t name, I reached again, my fingers wrapping around the length of his erection. It pulsed in my hand, thick and hot, and a gasp escaped me this time, a mixture of shock and pure, raw want. He was huge, bigger than I had imagined, and the intimate contact sent another wave of shivers through me.
Before I could second-guess myself, before the guilt could fully take hold, I guided him. Slowly, deliberately, I positioned the head of his penis against my slick, yearning entrance. He was behind me, spooning, and the angle was awkward, clumsy, but somehow, intensely erotic.
“Ella…” he choked out, his voice hoarse, filled with disbelief and something else… longing? “What… what are you doing?” His body went rigid, a statue carved from shock and arousal.
I didn’t answer, couldn’t answer. Words were useless now, meaningless in the face of this primal urge. Instead, I pushed back against him, guiding myself onto him, slowly, inch by agonizing inch. It was tight, almost painful at first, but then a wave of pleasure erupted, a searing heat that chased away the cold dread and replaced it with a blinding, desperate need.
He was still frozen, his body tense, his hand gripping my breast like a lifeline. I could feel his shock radiating off him in waves, but underneath it, I could also sense a flicker of something else, something that mirrored the burning desire consuming me.
“Dad…” I whispered, my voice trembling, “Don’t… don’t stop.”
And then, slowly, hesitantly, he began to move.
His movements were small at first, tentative as if he was checking if this was real if I would push him away, if the world would suddenly shatter around us. He nudged against me, a tiny pressure, then another, each one sending jolts of sensation rippling through me. The sound of his breathing deepened, becoming ragged gasps against my ear. He pushed a little harder, my ass cheeks spreading around him, the sound wet and intimate in the confined space of the tent. Thwack. It wasn’t gentle, not really, each thrust carrying weight, a pent-up force that had been brewing for years, I sensed. Thwack. My own breath hitched, mirroring his ragged rhythm.
“Ella…” His voice was thick, almost unrecognizable, a low rumble vibrating against my spine. “Are… are you sure?” He paused, his body still pushing into me, even as he asked the question. It was a token question, I knew, a last desperate attempt to pull back from the edge, but the question itself was heavy with the unspoken desire that had crackled between us, unspoken until now.
“Yes,” I breathed, the word catching in my throat, more a gasp than a word. “Don’t… stop. Please.” My nails dug into the fabric of the sleeping bag beneath me, gripping tight, grounding myself in this dizzying, forbidden reality.
There was a moment of absolute stillness, the air thick with unspoken consent and a terrifying exhilaration. Then he moved again, and this time there was no hesitation. He started to pound into me, not roughly, not brutally, but with a fierce, controlled desperation. Thwack-thwack-thwack. The sound echoed in the tent, the rhythmic impact of skin on skin, flesh on flesh. Each thrust sent shockwaves through my body, my breasts bouncing against his chest, my teeth gritted against the pleasure and the wrongness of it all.
“Oh, fuck, Ella,” he groaned, the words hot and wet against my neck as he pumped into me. “Jesus Christ, you feel so good.” His hands tightened on my breasts, squeezing, kneading, sending sharp sparks of sensation through me. He wasn’t gentle anymore, the restraint he had been clinging to, the pretense of fatherhood, was crumbling, dissolving into the raw, animalistic need that was driving us both.
“Dad,” I gasped, my head thrown back against his shoulder, trying to find air, trying to articulate something, anything, in the face of this overwhelming sensation. “Oh God, Dad…”
“Say it, Ella,” he insisted, his voice strained, his rhythm intensifying. “Say my name. Let me hear you say it.” His breath was coming in short, sharp pants, hot on my skin. “Tell me what you want.”
“Fuck, Dad, fuck me,” the words tore from my throat, raw, unbidden, a confession and a command all at once. The tent seemed to shrink, the air thickening with the scent of our mingled sweat, the sounds of our bodies the only reality.
He responded instantly, fiercely, his thrusts becoming deeper, harder, each one driving me further up the wall of sensation. Thwack-thwack-THWACK. The sleeping bag beneath me was bunching up, twisting, but I didn’t care, nothing mattered but the feeling of him inside me, this shocking, forbidden intimacy.
“That’s it, baby, that’s it,” he grunted, his voice thick with exertion. “Like that? You like that, Ella?” He was pushing into me now with everything he had, his body slick with sweat against my back, his hands gripping my hips, holding me in place, driving me into the sleeping bag with each thrust.
“Yes,” I moaned, my voice lost in the rhythm of our bodies. “Oh God, yes, harder, Dad, harder.” The words spilled out of me, shameful and exhilarating, fueling the fire that was consuming us. I could feel him shuddering against me, his muscles tense, his breathing ragged.
“You’re tight, Ella, so fucking tight,” he gasped, his voice cracking. “Never… never had anything like this.” He shifted position slightly, angling himself deeper, pressing even further inside me, hitting a spot that sent a wave of pure, blinding pleasure through my core.
I cried out, a sharp, involuntary sound, my body clenching around him. “Dad! Oh, Dad!” The world narrowed to just the two of us, locked together in this forbidden dance, surrounded by the thin walls of the tent, lost in a wilderness of desire and taboo.
He groaned again, a long, guttural sound that was part pain, part pleasure, and then he started to buck into me, his rhythm frantic now, desperate, like he was trying to slam his soul into mine. THWACK-THWACK-THWACK-THWACK. The sounds echoed around us, a primal symphony of lust and transgression.
“Come on, Ella, come on,” he urged, his voice hoarse, ragged. “Let go, baby, let go for me.” His pace was relentless, his body a hard, driving force against mine.
And then, finally, I felt it building, the pressure coiling tighter and tighter in my core, a wave of heat rising up, threatening to break. “Oh God, Dad… I think…”
“Yeah, baby, yeah, take daddies dick,” he groaned, his thrusts becoming shorter, and sharper, pushing me closer and closer to the edge. “Let it go, Ella, let it go now.”
And I did. My body convulsed around him, a series of sharp, shuddering contractions, a release so intense it was almost painful. I gasped and screamed his name into the fabric of the sleeping bag, my nails digging into his back, my whole world exploding in a supernova of sensation.
He roared then, a primal cry of release that echoed in the tent, and he bucked hard one last time, burying himself deep inside me as his own climax ripped through him. He went rigid, his body shuddering, his hot seed pulsing deep within me. Spurt after spurt as he pumped the contents of his big dad’s balls into the back of my womb.
We stayed like that for a long moment, locked together, panting, the only sounds were our ragged breaths and the faint rustle of the tent fabric in the night breeze. The world outside seemed to have vanished, replaced by the small, intimate space we had created, a space filled with the aftermath of our forbidden act, the heavy weight of our desires finally, terrifyingly, fulfilled.