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I write character-driven male-POV erotica that explores where our deepest desires come from and how far we'll go to just to satisfy them.
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  • The Harvest: a novel-length erotic story about a depraved 40-year-old lothario's plan to finally father children of his own by winning over the hearts, minds and bodies of three young women who were once an important part of his life.
    • Fetishes: age difference, breeding, defloration, harem, maledom, seduction
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About Me: I'm a recent creative writing graduate and aspiring author who aims to one day write full-time in the romance and erotic fiction genres. I hold my work to publication quality standards which means each chapter requires significant time to outline, draft and edit. If you enjoy my writing and wish to see more of it, please support my dream!

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The Harvest - Chapter 4

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The Harvest - Chapter 3

"What do you want?"

You're impressed at how quickly Ashley's mood flips. One moment she's the playful little girl you left ten years ago and the next, a jaded rich brat you wouldn't even recognize in passing. Jessica has that effect on people; you know that firsthand.

"No, I'm not doing your stupid father-daughter date night shit," Ashley yells. "If you want Paul out the house so bad figure out how to convince him yourself."

She drifts toward the glass wall far enough away that you can't make out Jessica's exact reply. You can tell it's loud, loud enough to be heard several feet away without speaker. With every bark of the phone Ashley gets angrier and angrier until you're certain a full-blown mother-daughter screaming match will break out in your gym room. Worried she'll volley her plan to move in with you as ammunition, you make your move. Cautiously, of course. Demented though she may be your ex-wife is nothing if not cunning. Announcing your renewed presence in her daughter's life would give away the element of surprise and guarantee her interference in your plan.

You slide silently back into Ashley's field of vision with your own finger on your lips this time. The moment you have her attention you play charades with your palm and index finger until she finally gets the hint, thinks about it for a second and then finally, to your relief, hangs up.

Just when you think she's calmed down, she throws her phone on the matted ground with a violent heave.


You pick up that latest Apple product to find it intact, and give her space to cool off. Her behavior's unacceptable in the long run but a golden opportunity for you in the now. The cracks absent from her screen are instead buried in her foundation. You'd planned to break her down a bit and build her back up, but luckily for you Jessica's parenting has spared what remains of your conscience the dirty work.

Claire chooses the perfect moment to come back from her potty break. A suspiciously long one either way, you think. You'll have to check the floor later; you wouldn't put it past this little slut who reminds you of Jessica in all the wrong ways to sneak a camera into your bathroom on a whim.

"Ooh, Mommy dearest was it." She takes your silence for her answer. "Don't see Ash that pissed over anything. Was her mom such a crazy bitch when you married her?"

"No," you lie.

You'd known Jessica's true nature from the moment you saw her; you were eighteen, not a moron. The night you were assigned to wait a table for two at that tony Italian restaurant you worked at, the most beautiful girl you'd ever met had winked at you from her high school boyfriend's lap. You'd fucked her like a cheap whore two separate times in the bathroom during your breaks. Filled her unsuspecting date's cup with water, in between filling her with a pussy full of what might have in nine months become Alex.

Or so you'd thought. You'd been arrogant. Not so to believe you could ever earn the loyalty of someone utterly incapable, but enough to picture yourself simply never giving her a reason to stray. You'd even relished the challenge, reasoning that she would keep you hungry and sharp against the tides of time. The two of you were a pair of lions in a world full of sheep; compatible in a way you'd mistaken for love or something close to it.

In bed Jessica was made for you, the statue to your perverse Pygmalion. Her nymphomaniac appetite proved the wellspring to your never-ending thirst; her masochist streak, the release valve for your darkest desires. You'd brutalize her in ways that would send even your bravest fucktoy running, ream her holes gaping and raw and only ever be begged for more. No matter how lacking you'd found every girl thereafter, you'd always reach satisfaction when you closed your eyes and imagined her instead. Her and no one else.

Until now.

You're too preoccupied studying the way Ashley's perfect features contort to notice how close Claire's approach gets until you feel two pointed nubs press against the small of your back. You turn to find your suspicions confirmed. She'd taken off her bra in the bathroom, baring the mouthwatering outline of her perky nipples under that snug top.

"What?" she teases when she catches you staring. "I thought I'd make myself comfortable."

The temptation is strong. Claire might be nothing at all to you, but you're still wound up after Melody's disappointment yesterday and this nubile teen is offering herself on a silver platter. It would be all too easy to drag her upstairs right now, throw her onto your bed and find some release in that tight little body of hers.

All you know you can do is endure it.


Luckily for your sake, she only tortures you for a few minutes before Ashley recomposes herself and reminds the slut of some social obligation you couldn't care enough about to ask even a single polite question. When Claire drives off, you realize with no car of her own Ashley can only mean to stay the night. Of course, you downplay your delight.

"Won't Jessica wonder where you are?"

Ashley scoffs. Another bratty tendency she's picked up. "Too drunk on dicks to give a shit. I'll say sleepover at Claire's house if she asks."

"Language," you chide with abundant levity. You don't actually care, but getting her even the slightest bit used to your authority again can only help. "Good to hear she hasn't kicked the old orgy habit. Does the guy she's seeing not know or did he just bury his head in the sand?

"Who cares? Paul's dumb but at least he's not one of the creeps who pervs on me when she's not around."

You get a pang of something. Whether it's sympathy for Ashley or vindication for your long-lost custody case you don't know, but it lingers longer than any emotion you've felt in a while.

"I'm sorry," you say. "For not fighting harder for your sake. All three of you."

"Don't kick yourself, old man. Only Alex holds that grudge and she's got a stick so far up her ass it should count as a colonoscopy."

You get a genuine chuckle out of that. "How is she? And Kristen too while we're at it."

"Kris is good, we still talk once in a while. Alex not so much."

"That's a shame. Why?"

"Pre-MBA big shot at Columbia. Either she's too busy or just thinks we're not worth her time anymore."

You stew over that. Not because you're surprised by her prestige; Alex was the book-smart one to begin with and as new parents, you and Jessica had also been strictest with her. But she'd always seemed such a doting eldest sister, never distant or aloof. The girl who would ghost Ashley is not the girl you raised.

None of them are anymore, you think.


For the first time in ten years you cook dinner for Ashley. Nothing fancy, far from the caliber of fine dining you churned out of an industrial kitchen over your career. What you put your heart and soul into is recreating the taste of her early childhood. Certainly not an act of pure fatherly love on your part; you're not sure you ever knew the meaning in the first place. But it isn't an act of deception per se.

"God," she moans between mouthfuls of sauced pasta. "I missed this so much."

Your motivation is selfish in a way. This humblest of meals partaken in your grand open-concept dining space is as much a religious experience for you as for her, a communion steeped in nostalgia as potent as any high you've ever felt. You've missed having this bond in your life no matter what form it may take. For a moment you even hush your baser instincts to watch her eat, alluring as she is, with only that noblest pleasure of emotional intimacy in mind.

The beautiful moment comes crashing to a halt when in her zeal to stuff her face, Ashley chokes on a huge gulp of water and dribbles it all over herself. Like her friend she isn't wearing a bra. And while her dress is padded, those thin cups of fabric soaked wet turn sheer.

That veiled glimpse of her dusky buds peaked by the chill gets you so erect it aches. You immediately imagine taking a nipple into your mouth, picture making her choke on something entirely less innocent. The beast inside urges you to rip off that sundress and take her right there on your lovely oak floor, willing or otherwise. Of course you won't, at least not while your self-control remains. But you do know then and there that you will never be satisfied just having her company or even her love. You'll have her body too, by any means necessary.

By the time Ashley's done coughing you've already averted your eyes, that mental snapshot already tucked away. She immediately notices her wardrobe malfunction, covers herself with dainty hands barely big enough to hold her breasts and asks you for a change of clothes. With no women's wear lying around you go to your room to fetch her a clean T-shirt of your own. You come back downstairs to another stimulating surprise.

Ashley's taken her dress off.

She's not truly topless hunched in her seat with the fabric folded over her chest, though plenty of her bronzed skin is exposed to you including the sides of her tight belly. You pass her your shirt with arm extended fully across the table, out of not respect for her modesty but rather the fear that you'll go erect again if you get close enough to catch a glimpse of her panties.

"Dad?" She's embarrassed. You can hear it plain and clear. "Can you turn around? Please?"

It takes every bit of self-control you've learned in your forty years but you manage to resist taking a peek.

The rest of your evening together is uneventful. Ashley does her homework in the living room and picks out an episode of some insipid reality show to watch together on your gigantic plasma TV. You suffer through the hour of dramatic idiocy with only her snarky commentary and the feeling of her head on your shoulder as solace.

Bedtime arrives not a second too soon. You show Ashley to her room, comfortable and spacious if not as luxurious as yours next door. She loves it. You leave her to her devices and go through the motions of your nighttime routine waiting for your exhaustion to overtake your pent-up agitation. When you press an ear to her door to see if she's still up before heading to bed yourself, you hear something that would leave you waiting until morning and beyond.

Moaning. Intermittent bursts of noise muffled by hand or pillow, but not near as soft as she must think.

Your heart beats so furiously you pull your chest away from the door in some irrational fear that she'll hear it. Your cock is iron tenting your boxers, the tip soaking through with pre-cum already. Ashley's vocally pleasuring herself in your house, near your own room. And she's too clever to believe that comes with no risk of being heard. You want so desperately to believe she wants you to hear her but the far more rational explanation's almost as good.

She simply can't help herself. A legendary libido like her mother's, which demanded multiple rounds of cock or tongue every day to sate.

You slip back into your own bed quietly, grab lube from your nightstand and go to work. You've never had to masturbate twice in a row in your life; your little girl is the ultimate exception. You want so badly to be in that room right now using your own hand on her, readying her to receive your cock and its potent load. You thrust away into your slippery hand wondering what her pussy looks like. Hairy or shaven, pink or dark, folds protruding or hidden, you'd lovingly fill it any and every way. Too abstract. You return to tonight's precious glimpse of her nipples branded in your memory. In your mind you peel that dress down to free those lovely tits and press her head down gently until she kneels before you. You reverse your grip and tighten only your thumb and index finger to imitate the seal of her full lips bobbing up and down your length. The sudden jolt of cerebral pleasure makes you hiss. You picture feeding yourself patiently, incrementally into her hot mouth until the tip enters her throat just far enough to make her gag the tiniest bit. And that proves too much for you both in mind and body. You explode into searing ecstasy before promptly crashing back down to reality.

In post-orgasmic clarity your plan takes concrete form. You'll nurture that seed of attraction inside her. You'll mold that daughterly affection into absolute respect. And when the time is right you'll overstimulate her libido until her fingers alone no longer satisfy, and provide the best and only outlet you'll let her find.

You sleep well that night.

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The Harvest -Chapter 2

You wake up the next morning in your master bedroom, all alone in a bed big enough for four. The very first thing you do is check your phone to see if Ashley’s answered you.

If you’re still bumming it in your McMansion I might be down just to keep you company. What’s the living sitch like?

You can guess she’s really worried about the occupants, not the building. Clever girl. You can only imagine what lies her mother’s told her about your love life.

Just me myself and I. And 10,000 square feet. And a swimming pool.

Her reply comes almost instantly. Which, given the time, means she’s texting in school. Bad Ashley.

No lucky lady?

Would you consider yourself lucky? you type out before thinking better of it. Witty, but too early and too forward. You delete in a hurry and send a simple nope instead. Ashley tells you she’s thinking of coming over after school to check your place out. You answer with mild approval, not wanting to let on how enthusiastic you really are about the prospect.

Soon your arrangement is hashed in concrete terms. She's visiting at 3:30 with a friend in tow which gives you less than six hours to get the day's work done, clean up the house and ready one of the rooms near yours for her. You could be lazy and give her the first floor guest suite you prepared for yesterday's debacle. But what you really want is to keep her close, to get her as comfortable being around you as possible.

And you're type to move mountains to get exactly what you want.

You save the housework for later in favor of your weekly check-in and lunch at Lucien's, your flagship. Not procrastination; you know the importance of first impressions. Catching you all sweaty in the middle of house cleaning would go a long way in reminding Ashley how down-to-earth you could be. Or at least approachable, compared to overbearing Jessica and her revolving door of servants and playthings.

"Lookin' sharp, boss."

Your spike-headed head chef returns to her kitchen and gives you a one-armed hug. Tammy's the only member of your empire inner circle you ever willingly spend time with outside of business. A devout lesbian and voracious connoisseur of fine young women herself, she's the closest you've found to a kindred soul for all your debauched appetites. You'd discovered her talent as a lowly prep cook ten years ago and five years later, promoted her to this vaunted position over more experienced and complacent applicants. That move, in addition to previous hires, had garnered your restaurant industry acclaim for running an exceptionally LGBTQ-friendly kitchen.

Not that you didn't, per se, but you definitely did run a tight ship of men with no interest in fucking your then-business partner wife, and women undistracted by thoughts of fucking you.

Tammy takes you to the table reserved for you on Thursdays, and the two of you sit down to a spread of plates all adapted from recipes you created for Lucien's over the years.

"So," she asks between bites. "How was your big day with poor little Melody? I have an ongoing bet with the wifey on how many times you made her pass out."

"Zero." You wipe some of your signature salsa verde off your chin. "Let's just say she failed her end of the bargain rather quickly."

"Aw, poo. Do you have any juicy bits at all for me?"

For the umpteenth time you consider advising Tammy to find her own fucktoy to spice up her marriage instead of living vicariously through you, but you know from experience her job doesn't come with much free time. After a quick look around to make sure none of your patrons are watching, you indulge her with your poor imitation of choking-on-cock-face.

When she finally stops laughing she asks the question you've been waiting for. "So who's next?"

You consider the consequences for a while before passing her your phone. Fuck it, you could use her advice. She scrolls hungrily through the Instagram page you hadn't managed to close since yesterday.

"Jesus, look at the tits on this sweet thing. What's her name?"

"Ashley. Ashley Thompson."

"Isn't Thompson your psycho ex's name?" She sits still, putting two and two together. You just sit there watching her patiently, enjoying the way her eyes go wide as saucers. "Holy shit. Holy fucking shit, Luce, you absolute degenerate."

"Guilty as charged."

Tammy hops up and down in her chair like a gleeful kid unwrapping a Christmas present. "I'm gonna wreck myself to your little girl tonight, if you don't mind. Keep me updated or I swear I'll quit one of these days."

"Here's hoping, but there might be nothing to update. She still sees me as a father figure."

"And that's a bad thing? You know the power of daddy issues." She hands you your phone back with a big grin. "Look."

You frown at the photo you posted months ago, shirtless in all your sculpted glory wearing just gym shorts that barely conceal your bulge. Forty likes, one of which had been how you'd introduced yourself to Melody. None of which are Ashley.

"Not there, boomer. Check your notifications."

You scroll down and there it is.

ash.thompsunny liked your photo

You feel your heart rate spike. You're no social media maven but you're popular enough to have had women, and what you're assuming are closeted men, like and then unlike your posts thinking they'd left no evidence.

You can definitely work with this, you think.


As planned, Ashley rings your doorbell just in time to catch you sweeping the foyer in your pool shirt and swim shorts. Even the photos hadn't done her justice, you think. She's stunning. Waves of brown curls your fingers itch to run through, pouty pink lips aching to be kissed, toned arms and legs you can already picture wrapped around you in ecstasy.

"Hey there, old man," she greets you. "Long time no see."

"Look at you, Ash." You take her into one strong arm, letting her feel the hard muscles you spend hours a week maintaining. "My little girl's all grown up now."

Her mesmerizing olive eyes look up at you with so much longing and admiration. After ten years of intermittent texts and the occasional phone call as your only form of communication, getting to hug you must have made her entire day, if not week. You silently suffer the delicious torture her firm breasts inflict on your self-control as they press into your abdomen, separated from your bare skin by only your thin white shirt and an adorable yellow sundress you'd love nothing more than to peel off her supple body right now. Somehow, between your experience and the fact that you've genuinely missed her company too, you barely manage to avoid getting erect.

"So this is where the legendary Insta DILF lives? Holy shit, I can see why you won't shut up about moving in with him."

The petite blonde friend who follows Ashley through your door is trouble; you'd fucked enough girls like her to tell at a glance. She's the epitome of SoCal chic, sun-kissed and sultry with a fit body and the penchant for wearing tight rainbow tube tops to show it off.

"What the hell, Claire!" Ashley laughs, but her cheeks and ears continue to redden. "Ignore her."

Of course you've already taken note of all the intriguing information she's divulged, especially the juicy DILF tidbit.

"Calm your tits, he knows I'm fucking with you." Claire rakes her eyes over your bare body with a naughty smile. "Very nice to meet you, Mr. Menendez."

You take her fingers in your palm and when prompted, plant one chaste kiss on her cheek as far from her lips as possible. Asked in a vacuum, you'd have your way with this little slut and effortlessly enough, given her reaction to you. You can't help imagining Claire's tiny body speared on your cock, her tight teen pussy overwhelmed by your girth as you suck and tweak those bite-sized tits of hers.

But girls their age are nothing if not gossips. By your initial estimation of their friendship, you can only figure Ashley would be among the first to know. And you'd rather suffer a dry spell than jeopardize your quest for your sweet little bombshell's womb by coming across as a womanizer desperate to wet your cock inside a friend who couldn't hold a candle to Ashley on her best day.

You give the girls the grand tour of the place. Ashley's excitement is greatly eclipsed by her friend's. Claire gushes over your marble staircase, fawns over your glass-paneled living room the size of a poorer man's entire house. Your irritation at the loudmouth third-wheeling your reunion wears off quickly; you've realized this can only open Ashley's eyes to what staying with you could do for her social status at both their cliquey private school and whatever college she's attending in the fall.

Even compared to the house she'd grown up in, your mansion is a clear step up. Along with everything else in the divorce, Jessica had gotten the beautiful five-bedroom house you'd bought together when Lucien's had first hit it big. In the month-long drunken bender that followed you'd thrown fiscal caution to the wind and blown eight digits you hadn't yet earned on this palatial Costa Mesa playground. Fortunately, your business expansions had taken off just in time to catch up with your astronomical debt, and as of this year you were now in every sense the proud owner of a property that would impress even your ex's old-money tastes And now it would serve as the perfect backdrop for your plan to win her daughter away.

You're in the middle of showing Ashley your home gym when her phone rings. The next thing you, her eyes are wide and her finger's on your lips.

When you peek at the caller ID, you understand why.

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The Harvest - Chapter 1

Your name is Lucien Menendez: restauranteur, divorcee, one-time father of three. Today, for your fortieth birthday, you’ve arranged a little treat for yourself in the guest room of your mansion.

“Suck,” you command.

The topless brunette kneeling beneath you gives your cock another lazy lick with her tongue. Warm and wet, running up and down the throbbing vein underneath. You hiss, more impatient than appreciative. With her hair in your fist and the growl of her name- Melody- in your throat, you press your sensitive tip against her ruby lips seeking entrance. You’ve had enough; she’s not skilled enough a cocksucker to finish you with just halfhearted tongue play, nor well-endowed enough to finish you between her pert but modest breasts. No, you need to feel her hot little mouth around the whole length of you now.

The moment she relents and opens up you surge forth to fuck her face in earnest. Melody makes beautiful music as you bottom out in the tight warmth of her throat, a symphony of gags and gargles. She merely endures this, you’ve gathered over time, but choking on your cock and her own saliva doesn’t seem unpleasant enough for her to stop you. And of course you do stop, on principle; you don’t stay where you’re not welcome and you’d never stoop to rape. But you’re no simpering sugar daddy either. You’d rather hire an actual whore, unsavory though the idea may be, than let some conniving frat girl milk your wallet dry for merely mediocre sex.

The tight ring of her lips sliding up and down the base of your cock quickly builds your pleasure up to a searing peak and you unload in spurts, pulling back just far enough to coat the back of her tongue in your essence. One hell of a load; you’ve been backed up after a month without release. She keeps her mouth open to show you the pool of milky evidence as trained, swallowing it all in one quick gulp not a moment after you give her permission. It’s the next best thing to spitting and you’ve expressly forbidden that. Despite the recent orgasm, your cock stirs a little at the lewd sight. Or maybe it’s the reluctance written all over her pretty face.

You’ve made the terms of this arrangement abundantly clear to Melody just as you did all your other fucktoys before her. She’s here on your terms and you draw the lines. Even one objection means everything comes to a clean end and with it, her monthly dinner date at the fancier establishments in your budding empire.

She has good taste, if only in that regard.

You paved your road out of childhood poverty off your own gift of taste. A meager scholarship hadn’t covered the full price of culinary school, so you’d spent all your free time working as a line cook. You were a natural from the moment you picked up a spatula and with all the extra sweat put in, shot quickly to the top of your class before exploding onto the fine dining scene in tony Orange County. One taste of abuela’s mole recipe fused with some French fish dish by your impeccable technique, and all of a sudden the waspy patrons of Newport Beach were lining up to shell forty bucks a plate for tame takes on the flavors you’d enjoyed as a child for pocket change.

You were rich, but all the time spent amassing your little fortune had taken its toll on your personal life. Which is how you find yourself here, in between unsatisfying dates with women your own age. Now you don’t find forty-year-olds unattractive per se, but you treat your own body like a temple. The former housewives and career chasers you seem to always match with rarely meet that standard; most had frankly let themselves go.

Not you; you’ve maintained the same strict routine since your star athlete high school days and reaped the rewards. You could pass for early thirties if not for the silver strands in your otherwise jet black hair, and you’re still the living definition of tall, dark and handsome at six-two with the face of a Latin lover on the body of a Greek god. Half Mexican and a quarter Japanese, to women you’re the same winning formula of just-exotic-enough as your food.

Enrique Iglesias with a gym membership, or so Melody likes to brag to her friends.

Not like you’re planning on keeping her around long enough to meet them, if she doesn’t do a better job keeping you satisfied. The thought gets you to rake your hungry eyes over her nubile body. She’s not the most arousing girl you’ve bedded- a little gangly and bony, nothing special by SoCal standards and a far cry in sexual prowess from your devil ex-wife. Yet you’re fully hard again not ten minutes from your last orgasm.

You’re not quite a pornstar at six and a half inches but you are fairly thick, too thick for smaller girls to touch fingers wrapping around. What makes you too much for most women, however, isn’t the hardware. You have the stamina and recovery time of boys half your age, your cardio pumping you full of a veiny hardness those porn-addled college kids could only envy.

A hardness Melody enjoys on the days you choose not to push her limits; not today.

You pull her legs apart to spy the wetness between her white panties; you recall the subtle arm movements she’d tried to hide while blowing you. Normally you’d punish her for touching without permission but today, you’re glad she’s prepared herself for the gauntlet to come. Ignoring every protest you rip the expensive fabric clean off, throw her onto the bed facedown, and enter her from behind with a single vicious roll of your hips.

While you never make love to your fucktoys, you usually return the foreplay with your fingers. Sometimes you even reward a blowjob well done with the practiced touch of your own tongue. But today is about your pleasure and nothing else. You take her slowly but roughly, gripping each buttock at the tan line hard enough to bruise. Each thrust rattles her smaller body and penetrates the full length of her. You take the time to enjoy every shaky hiss and moan you draw, every wet fold of her tight cunt gripping and massaging your cock from root to tip.

“Can you finish inside my ass today? I’ve lubed it already.”

All in due time, you think. Instead of dignifying her with a response you grab a handful of palm-sized breast and tweak the pebbled bud at the end until she gasps in pain.

“Please,” she whines. “I’m not on…I forgot to take the pill.”

The thought only arouses you more. You pull out just long enough to flip her onto her back and kiss her before plunging back into her velvet depths with violent fervor. You were content to savor her pussy in no rush to chase your peak, but that was before you knew you could potentially plant a baby into her fertile young womb. Driven by that insatiable instinct to breed, you seize her by the wrists and pound her into the bed like the fuck-puppet she is.

“Stop. Stop!”

Two stops is technically the safe word, though you loathe using that term. At the very last moment you come to your senses and exercise every ounce of your restraint to pull out of her warmth and spurt onto the sheets instead. It’s the most underwhelming orgasm you’ve had in years.

When Melody realizes what she’s done her face falls. She begs you wide-eyed, which might’ve worked for a careless mistake on the same day but not for weeks of negligence. You’d given ample notice of the occasion; of what was expected of her, a full month in advance.

You send her off for the last time politely but firmly, with a check in hand to replace her designer underwear you ruined and a little more on top to soothe tempers. After one ugly close call in court a few years ago you’ve taken every measure to insure yourself documenting consent, and you’d chosen Melody over more attractive candidates precisely for that minimal level of intelligence to realize she’d never get anywhere on an unsubstantiated rape charge.

But you’d rather be extra safe to save yourself the headache.

Disgruntled, you turn to work to distract yourself from your sexual frustration. You sift through your message inbox which always seems to fill up faster than you can reply. Always a businessman at heart, you gave up the apron years ago and now deal in the pros and cons of managing an empire. You check in with the chef you’ve hired to take over the kitchen at your flagship, then knock off a mountain of supply inquiries with the management team of your burgeoning fast-casual chain. Finally there’s only one more unread message left. Your heart lifts a little; it’s the one you look forward to every year.

Happy birthday Dad!

You send your response quickly, more or less the same as always.

Thanks for thinking of me, Ashley. How are things at home?

Ashley’s the only one you’ve stayed in contact with on and off over the years. The black sheep among her sisters who still thinks of you as their dad, probably because she’s also the only one who was too young back then to understand what a shit father you were. You could’ve fought so much harder for visitation rights, but in your blind rage you’d stopped thinking of them as your children. Because they weren’t, not by blood at least; your hellspawn ex had robbed you of that chance.

You think maybe Jessica caused your obsession with finishing inside a girl. Maybe if you’d come in her slut cunt more often and wasted less on her lying face, you’d have managed to squeeze a bun of your own in there between all the other cocks she’d taken behind your back.

Instead here you are at forty with the biological clock ticking down, no child of your own seed and no wife to willingly bear you one. The thought of your bloodline ending with you is anathema, a fate your animal instincts fear far more than death itself. You could remedy that easily enough but you’ve grown sick of sugar babies and gold diggers and especially divorces with children of their own to waste your energy raising again.

Your phone vibrates. You read Ashley’s response.

Bad. Mom’s being a bitch and this guy she’s seeing thinks he’s my dad or something. At least senior year’s almost over. If I spend another year here they’ll find my body in the river.

Can’t you move out? You’re an adult now,
you reply.

She’ll cut off my tuition. No job or anywhere to stay. Btw old man, check your damn Insta already. I’d be your age by the time you added me back.

With nothing else to do for the waste of a birthday you’d cleared your schedule for, you decide to humor her and open Instagram for the first time in a while. Social media appealed to you when you were young and vain but now you only bother uploading photos to set bait for your next Gen-Z fucktoy.

Sure enough you’ve gained a dozen followers, one of them Ashley. You return the favor and habitually reach to close the app. But a last-second whim makes you curious enough to think, why not?

You nearly drop the phone when you open her latest post.

She’s gorgeous.

Skin the color of burnt caramel, a cute button nose and shining green eyes, shapely breasts snug under a sweater. In the decade since the divorce, the little girl who’d once played on your lap had grown into one of the most beautiful women you’ve ever seen.

Ashley had been the one to tip you off as she got older. Her skin tone had turned as dark as yours but it was her voluminous frizzy hair that had really roused your suspicions. You were no geneticist, but you had no immediate black ancestry and knew better than to believe lily-white Jessica’s bullshit about her own. When the paternity tests revealed one brutal truth after another, you’d snapped. Slapped your remorseless wife three times across the face, once for each negative match; enough to constitute domestic abuse, in the eyes of a jury.

They might have been more sympathetic to your cause had they known that between the despair she’d caused you and the physical pain you, her, the masochistic slut had wet herself on the spot. Not admissible evidence in court, sadly.

You skim through Ashley’s history with rapt interest now, looking for a shot with her sisters in it. A rare flash of red hair demands your attention but on closer inspection you realize the girl’s too plain and too young to be Alex, twenty-one now by your math. You give up even quicker looking for Kristen; way too many blonde friends to sift through. A recent photo catches your eye for a different reason, though. A beach pic of Ashley alone.

In nothing but a red bikini so skimpy her firm tits threaten to spill out the top, thin enough for you to make out the pebbled shape of her hard nipples.

You’re hard again instantly. Any moral part of you that finds this wrong only fuels your growing lust. You’re seeing her in a whole new light; she’s your daughter in just a sense, one that even heightens her appeal. The intimate dependency she once had on you is the most delicious form of taboo. What disgusts you isn’t incest, but rather inbreeding. And not only is Ashley as biologically distant from you as any girl on Earth, she looks just about as fertile too.

For the first time in years, you’re compelled to masturbate. With spit as lubrication, your hand wraps around your cock as you imagine yourself introducing it to those plump dick-sucking lips of hers. You imagine teaching her to suck cock with all the doting patience of a father showing his daughter how to drive, and rewarding her by tasting her pussy. You imagine kneading her sizable breasts as you praise her for how much bigger they are than her mother’s. And when you imagine her calling you Daddy as you shove that slip of red fabric aside to pound your essence into her eighteen-year-old womb, your pleasure mounts into a white-hot peak better than any of your fucktoys have ever given you.

You’ve made up your mind. Ashley will be yours. You’ll win her over mind, heart and body, and she’ll give you what her mother denied you for years. A child of your seed.

Heart racing, you compose your next message to her carefully.

If you want, you can stay with me for a while.

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