The silence of the house pressed in on me, thick and heavy like the summer air outside. I am Lily a 24 year old and pent up pretty bad during lockdown. Covid had turned our lives upside down, shrinking our world to the four walls of our home. Eighteen and ready to launch into adulthood, I felt like a caged bird. Parties, dates, even just hanging out with friends felt like a distant memory. The frustration wasn’t just social; it was physical, raw, and gnawing at me, a constant hum beneath the surface of every day.
Downstairs, my mom and I were attempting a movie night, something we did to fill the endless evenings. But even the flickering images on the screen couldn’t distract from the tension coiled inside me. Mom, always exhausted these days, was already dozing on the sofa next to me. The credits rolled unnoticed, the room bathed in the muted glow of the television. I glanced at the clock on the wall – almost midnight. Too late to wake her, and honestly, I didn’t want to. An idea, reckless and thrilling, began to form in my mind.
Slowly, carefully, I untangled myself from the blankets and stood up. The quiet of the house seemed to amplify every rustle of fabric, every creak of the floorboards. I padded towards the stairs, my heart starting to pound in my chest, a mixture of anticipation and nerves. Upstairs, the hallway was even darker, the only light filtering weakly from the small nightlight in the bathroom.
My room was the first door on the right. I slipped inside, closing it gently behind me. The familiar scent of my own space, the faint lingering perfume from earlier, usually comforting, felt almost alien tonight. My hands trembled slightly as I began to undress. Jeans, top, bra, panties – each piece of clothing felt like shedding a layer of restraint. I pulled on an oversized t-shirt, the soft cotton barely skimming my thighs. Beneath it, I was completely bare. A shiver ran down my spine, a thrill that was equal parts fear and excitement.
Dad’s room was at the end of the hall, always kept slightly cooler than the rest of the house. I hesitated outside his door, listening for any sound. Nothing but the gentle rhythm of his breathing. Taking a deep breath to steady my racing pulse, I pushed the door open and slipped inside.
The room was pitch black, the heavy curtains blocking out any stray moonlight. I could just make out the shape of his bed in the darkness, a darker rectangle against the deeper black of the room. Moving slowly, my bare feet silent on the carpet, I approached the bed. He was lying on his side, his back to me, his breathing deep and even.
I eased myself into the bed, sliding in behind him, my body pressed against his back. The warmth of him radiated through his pajamas, a solid, comforting heat. My heart hammered against my ribs. This was really happening. I pressed my bare backside against him, feeling the firm outline of his boxer shorts, the shape underneath.
He stirred slightly, a soft grunt escaping his lips, but didn’t wake. I held my breath, my body tense. He shifted again, and I felt his hand move, drifting back and resting on my hip. His fingers were warm against my skin through the thin t-shirt. I started to grind against him subtly, a slow, rhythmic movement, testing the waters.
He mumbled something in his sleep, shifting again, and this time his hand moved lower, cupping my buttock through the t-shirt. He was still asleep, or at least, deeply drowsy. But his touch was becoming more deliberate. I pressed closer, letting out a small, involuntary whimper as my own arousal intensified.
His hand tightened on my buttock, squeezing gently. He shifted again, turning slightly onto his back, but his arm remained around me, pulling me closer. He was still deep in sleep, but something was changing. I could feel the stirring against my backside becoming more pronounced.
“Honey?” he murmured, his voice thick with sleep, “You okay?”
The word hung in the air, a lifeline I grabbed onto. He thought it was Mom. It had worked.
I didn’t answer with words. Instead, I nuzzled my neck against his shoulder, letting out a soft, breathy sound, a quiet moan that was part nervousness, part pure desire. He responded instantly, his arm tightening around me, pulling me closer, molding my body against his. His hand slipped under my t-shirt, his fingers finding my bare skin, tracing the curve of my waist. Another soft moan escaped my lips, this time a little louder, a little more suggestive.
“You’re cold,” he mumbled, his voice still slurred with sleep, but a hint of awakening was creeping in. “Let me warm you up.”
His hand moved higher reaching around, cupping my breast through the t-shirt. Even through the fabric, his touch sent a jolt of electricity through me. I whimpered again, a tiny, breathy sound. He shifted again, pulling away slightly, and I felt his hand leave my breast. For a moment, panic flared in my chest, had I gone too far? Was he waking up properly?
But then, I felt him reach down, fumbling with the waistband of his pajamas. The sound of fabric rustling in the darkness filled the small space, and then, I felt it – the warm, solid length of him pressed against my back, no longer contained by fabric.
He spooned me again, his arm wrapping around my waist, pulling me even tighter against him. He brushed his lips against my neck, a sleepy kiss that was also undeniably sensual. “God, you feel good,” he breathed, his voice now fully awake, but still thick with sleep and something else, something deeper, something primal.
His hand slipped back under my t-shirt, this time pushing it up, bunching it around my chest, exposing my bare back to the cool night air. I shivered, not from cold, but from anticipation. He kissed my shoulder blade, his lips lingering there, sending shivers down my spine.
Then, his hand moved lower, reaching between my legs, his fingers finding the soft curve of my buttock. He gently lifted one cheek, just slightly, and I gasped, a sharp intake of breath. I knew what was coming.
He didn’t hesitate. I felt the blunt head of his cock press against my entrance, teasing, testing. A low moan rumbled in his chest, vibrating against my back. He pushed gently, and I felt the tip slide in, a warm, stretching sensation that made me gasp again, louder this time, a sound that was definitely pleasure.
He paused, letting me adjust, letting himself adjust. “You feel so tight, honey, dame your cunt feels different,” he whispered, his voice husky, thick with arousal. “Have you been…waiting for this?”
Another wave of guilt washed over me, but it was quickly overwhelmed by the rising tide of desire. I just moaned again, pressing my ass back against him, urging him on.
He seemed to take that as his invitation. He pushed again, a slow, steady pressure, and I gasped as he slid deeper, filling me inch by inch. It felt incredible, shockingly, breathtakingly good. He was so much bigger than I had imagined, filling me completely, stretching me in ways I had only dreamed of.
He remained still for a moment, letting me get used to his size, to the fullness inside me. Then, he started to move, slowly at first, withdrawing almost completely and then pushing back in, deep, each thrust sending shivers of pleasure rippling through my body.
“Oh, God,” he groaned, his breath hot on my neck. “You feel amazing. Your pussy feels tighter tonight honey. I will fuck you quietly I don’t want Lily to hear us.”
He started to pick up the pace, his thrusts becoming deeper, harder, more insistent. I arched my back, pushing my hips against him, meeting his rhythm, desperate for more, for everything. Each thrust sent his cock slamming into my depths, pushing against my cervix, sending sparks of sensation through me. I whimpered, moaned, cried out softly with each powerful stroke, the sounds muffled by the darkness, lost in the quiet of the night.
“That’s it,” he breathed, his voice ragged. “Like that, baby. So good.”
He reached around, his hand finding my breast again, this time roughly cupping it, squeezing, kneading. His fingers pinched my nipple, and a jolt of pure electricity shot straight down to my core, intensifying the pleasure, pushing me closer to the edge.
He just started hammering into my dirty wet slit and grunting as he pounded me with force the bed squeaked. He responded with a guttural growl, his thrusts becoming even more frantic, deeper, harder. I could feel his muscles tensing, his breathing growing ragged, his body vibrating with the effort.
“Cum on, baby,” he urged, his voice thick with passion. “Cum for me all over my fucking cock.”
And I did. The pleasure built and built, spiralling upwards, tightening, coiling, until it exploded, a shattering wave of sensation that washed over me, convulsing my body, clenching my muscles around his cock. I screamed, a muffled, ecstatic cry, my body arching off the bed.
He kept thrusting even as I came, his own climax building, his movements becoming desperate, urgent. Then, with a final, shuddering groan, he came, his body going rigid against mine, his cock throbbing inside me, pumping hot, thick seed into my depths.
We lay there, tangled together, panting, our bodies slick with sweat. The silence in the room was different now, thick with the unspoken, heavy with the weight of what we had done. His arm was still wrapped tightly around me, his chest rising and falling heavily against my back. I could feel his heart beating against my spine, slow and steady now.
The guilt, which had been lurking beneath the surface, now surged forward, sharp and biting. What had I done? This wasn’t just about my own frustrated desires anymore. This was… Dad.
Slowly, carefully, I unwound myself from him, easing out of his embrace. He mumbled something in his sleep, turning over onto his back, still deeply asleep, oblivious. I slipped out of the bed, my legs shaky, my body still humming with the aftershocks of orgasm.
The darkness of the room seemed to press in on me, suffocating me with shame and confusion. I tiptoed to the door, glancing back at him lying there, peaceful, unaware. Then, I slipped out of the room and back to my own, the silence of the house feeling heavier than ever.
The next morning, everything was disconcertingly normal. Dad was at the breakfast table, reading the newspaper, just like any other day. He smiled at me, a tired but familiar smile, and asked about my sleep. I just mumbled something about sleeping fine, avoiding eye contact.
But inside, nothing was normal. The memory of the night before, the feel of his body against mine, the raw, forbidden pleasure, was branded into my skin, a secret fire that burned within me. Guilt warred with a twisted, shameful thrill. I knew I should feel disgusted, horrified. But a part of me, a dark, secret part, couldn’t deny the undeniable truth. I craved more. I felt like a dirty little bitch for what I did, but, I would do it again.