Look out, Daddy. Your naughty
girl has brought you a present…but you need to unwrap it before mommy gets
home. In this third volume of Daddy Issues, you'll discover the kinkiest
pairings of fathers and daughters yet. Featuring spoiled brats jealous of their
mothers to very good girls that are just desperate for release, these four
taboo tales will delight your dirty mind. Mommy will never know!
In a haze of lust and shame,
I passed into a black slumber. When I woke, it was like no time had passed at all. I was still groggy, still ashamed, still wet. I searched the room for some
hint of the hour. The only light in my window was the glow of the neighborhood
lamps. My door was open.
Was Stephanie still in the
house? Not wanting to find out, not wanting my father to see the black stains
of my mascara, I gathered a few old clothes from my dresser and slithered
quietly to the bathroom. I spent what felt like ages beneath the steaming
spray, but it did not cleanse my memory. Obscenity clung to me like an oily
film. I tried to put that on my father, to tell myself that I was embarrassed
because he was a perverted old man, that whatever I'd seen was immoral,
despicable…but there was no one to swallow that lie but myself, and I could
not choke it down. Had I not driven to dad's house in a reverie of domination,
imagining my husband was just that kind of alpha male? Did I not dream of a
“daddy” of my own, a powerful older man to enslave me and despoil me?
And how he'd spoken to her afterward, so gentle and kind. He said he loved her.
He never said that to me or mom…
I would have crawled right
back into bed after toweling off. Since Michael and I started talking divorce,
it was all I did. Sleeping, avoiding the light. I should have been thrilled to get my life back, but instead I was lost, depressed, angry, discombobulated. I felt like I was losing my mind. I promised myself I wouldn't let daddy see my weakness, as I combed my hair in the foggy mirror. He'd seen me on the floor,
seen me at my worst, thighs tucked together and jealous of the way he loved
that girl. He'd never see me that low again.
So I thought, until I opened
the bathroom door. He was standing in my doorway, fully dressed and looking
like he'd just come from a business meeting. The sleeves of his silk shirt were
rolled up to expose his hairy, muscular forearms. One was propped against the frame, his gold watch gleaming on his silver wrist. His slacks were tailored
and cinched by a belt of fine Italian leather. His expression was neutral,
non-threatening, but it sapped me of my false confidence. I was no match for him.
Still wet from the shower, my hair hung limply over my shoulders. Because I hadn't brought my boxes inside, I had nothing to wear but my old clothes. A thin t-shirt hung loosely around my throat. The shorts I pulled out of the dresser were much too tight. “You
could have waited,” I said quietly.
“It's my house,” he
said. There wasn't an ounce of anger in his voice; the statement was direct, a fact, and I hated it.