Living With Dad Again - Chapter 1 to 3

Chapter 1

Ann adjusted the strap of her duffel bag on her shoulder as the taxi pulled away from the curb, leaving her standing in front of the modest single story house on the quiet suburban street. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the cracked driveway, warming the faded blue siding that looked like it hadn’t seen fresh paint in years. She was twenty now, a university student with dark, waist length hair that caught the breeze and skin pale enough to flush easily under stress or excitement. Her body was lean from years of casual yoga and campus walks, small, pert breasts that fit neatly under her simple white tank top, and a firm, rounded ass that filled out her faded jeans just enough to turn a few heads on campus. She hadn’t lived with her father since the divorce eight years ago. Now, because the dorms were full and the commute from her mother’s place was impossible, here she was.

The front door creaked open before she could knock. Robert stood there, wiping his hands on a worn kitchen towel. At forty five, he was every inch the blue collar man: sun-bronzed skin from long days on construction sites, a solid build that carried a little extra around the middle but still rippled with muscle in his arms and shoulders. His short brown hair was streaked with early gray, and stubble shadowed his jaw. He smelled faintly of sawdust and sweat even after a shower.

“Hey, kiddo,” he said, voice rough but warm. “You made it.”

“Hi, Dad.” Ann forced a smile. The word felt strange on her tongue after so many years.

He helped carry her bags inside. The house was small, exactly as she remembered, tiny living room with a sagging couch, a kitchen barely big enough for two people, and two bedrooms down a short hallway. The air carried the faint scent of coffee and something like pine cleaner, as if he’d tried to tidy up for her arrival. It wasn’t much, but it was clean enough.

The first few days were awkward as hell. Robert left early for work and came home late, boots heavy on the wooden floors, shoulders slumped from exhaustion. Conversations were stilted.

“How was class?” he’d ask, cracking open a beer.

“Fine. Lots of reading,” she’d reply, poking at the simple pasta he’d thrown together.

They ate in near silence, the clink of forks too loud in the quiet house. Ann felt like a guest in a place that should have felt like home. At night she lay in her old childhood room, now just a bed, a desk, and a few boxes, and stared at the ceiling, wondering if this had been a mistake.

Then, one rainy Thursday evening, everything shifted.

Ann was rummaging through the hallway closet for an extra blanket when a shoebox tumbled off the top shelf. Photos spilled across the floor. She knelt to gather them and froze at one image: herself at seven years old, dressed in a pink ballet tutu, standing on tiptoes beside her father. His face in the photo was younger, smoother, full of pure pride.

A soft chuckle came from behind her. Robert had just walked in from the garage, still in his work shirt.

“Damn, I remember that recital,” he said, crouching down. “You kept spinning even after the music stopped. Thought you were gonna launch into orbit.”

Ann laughed despite herself. “I was convinced I was going to be a prima ballerina. You came to every single practice, even when Mom couldn’t.”

They sat on the floor together, sorting through the rest of the pictures. Stories spilled out, forgotten trips to the park, the time he tried (and failed) to bake her a birthday cake that ended up looking like a charcoal brick, the way he’d carry her on his shoulders after long days. The tension that had thickened the air between them melted. For the first time in years, the house felt warmer. Robert’s laugh was deep and genuine, rumbling from his chest. Ann found herself leaning against his side, breathing in the comforting mix of soap and faint motor oil that clung to him.

From then on, things eased. Weeks passed in a new rhythm. Ann threw herself into university life, lectures, late-night study sessions, cheap coffee runs. Robert kept his long hours but started leaving little notes on the fridge: *Leftover chili in the blue bowl. Don’t stay up too late.* She’d come home to find him watching old action movies, and sometimes she’d join him, feet tucked under her on the couch, trading sarcastic commentary until they were both laughing.

One Sunday afternoon, Ann packed her laptop into her backpack. “I’m heading to Sarah’s place to finish that group project. Probably won’t be back until late.”

Robert nodded from the kitchen, wiping his hands after fixing a leaky faucet. His t-shirt clung slightly to his broad chest from the light sweat of manual work. “Good luck, sweetheart. I’ll probably just crash on the couch and catch up on some rest. Take care.”

She hugged him quickly, something that still felt new, and left.

Hours later, the project was canceled. Sarah’s roommate had come down with the flu, and no one wanted to risk it. Ann texted her dad that she was coming home early but got no reply. The bus ride back felt longer than usual, the late afternoon sun dipping low and painting the streets golden.

She unlocked the front door quietly, not wanting to wake him if he was napping. The house was dim, curtains drawn. Then she heard it.

A low, throaty moan. Feminine. Followed by the unmistakable rhythmic creak of a bedframe and a deeper, masculine grunt.

Ann’s heart slammed against her ribs. She should have announced herself. She should have gone straight to her room. Instead, curiosity, and something hotter, sharper, pulled her forward. She slipped off her shoes and crept up the narrow stairs on silent feet, the wooden steps cool beneath her socks.

The sounds grew louder. Wet, fleshy slaps. Gasping breaths. The woman’s voice was breathy, professional but pleased: “Fuck, you’re thick tonight, baby…”

Ann reached the landing. Her father’s bedroom door was ajar, just enough. Golden light from the bedside lamp spilled into the hallway. She pressed herself against the wall, pulse thundering in her ears, and peered through the gap.

Robert was on his knees on the bed, powerful back glistening with sweat. His bronzed skin flexed as he thrust hard into the woman beneath him. She was a curvaceous redhead, probably in her thirties, on all fours with her ass raised high. Her heavy breasts swayed with every impact, nipples hard. The air in the room was thick with the musk of sex sweat, pussy, and the faint rubbery scent of a condom. The wet smack of his hips against her ass echoed obscenely.

“Goddamn,” Robert growled, voice gravelly with lust. One big hand gripped her hip, the other tangled in her hair as he pulled her back onto his cock. Ann could see the thick length of him sliding in and out, veiny, flushed dark, stretching the woman’s glistening folds. His balls swung heavily with each thrust, slapping against her clit. The woman moaned louder, pushing back greedily.

Ann’s mouth went dry. She knew she should leave. Her cheeks burned, thighs pressing together involuntarily as a forbidden heat bloomed low in her belly. Her small breasts felt suddenly sensitive against the fabric of her tank top, nipples tightening. She watched her father’s muscular ass clench, the way sweat trickled down the groove of his spine, the raw power in his body as he fucked the woman with deep, punishing strokes.

The redhead cried out, shuddering through an orgasm, inner thighs slick. Robert didn’t slow down. He flipped her onto her back, spread her legs wide, and drove back in, grunting with effort. The bed creaked louder. Ann’s breath came shallow, one hand unconsciously drifting toward the front of her jeans before she caught herself.

She stood there for what felt like minutes but was probably only seconds, mesmerized by the sight of her father lost in raw pleasure, his face contorted in lust, powerful body moving with experienced rhythm, the scent of sex thick enough to taste.

Then the woman moaned his name—“Robert, fuck yes”—and reality crashed back. Ann backed away silently, heart hammering so hard she thought they might hear it. She slipped downstairs, grabbed her shoes, and eased out the front door without a sound, closing it with a soft click.

Outside, the evening air felt cool against her flushed skin. Her mind raced, body still buzzing with unwelcome arousal. She leaned against the side of the house for a moment, breathing hard, the image of her father’s thick cock plunging deep burned into her memory.

What the hell had she just seen? And why couldn’t she stop thinking about it?

Chapter 2 - Anger or Jealously?

The lecture hall buzzed with the low hum of keyboards and the professor’s monotone voice droning on about economic theory. Ann sat near the back, her dark hair tied in a loose ponytail that still brushed against her neck with every small movement. Sunlight slanted through the tall windows, warming the wooden desk beneath her forearms, but she couldn’t focus. Her pen tapped restlessly against her notebook, leaving tiny ink dots across the page.

Every time she tried to concentrate, the memory slammed back into her mind like a freight train. The dim bedroom light. The wet, rhythmic slap of skin on skin. Her father’s powerful, sweat-slicked body driving forward, muscles flexing, that thick, veiny cock disappearing between the redhead’s glistening thighs. The woman’s throaty moans, the heavy scent of sex hanging in the air. Ann’s cheeks burned. She crossed her legs under the desk, feeling a unwelcome throb between them. Her small breasts felt tight against her bra, nipples faintly sensitive. "Stop it", she scolded herself, but the images refused to fade.

By the time classes ended, the late afternoon sun was still high and warm. Ann walked home with her backpack slung over one shoulder, the strap pressing into her skin through her thin tank top. The neighborhood smelled of cut grass and distant barbecue smoke. She let herself into the quiet house, the cool air inside a relief against her flushed skin. The wooden floors creaked softly under her bare feet as she kicked off her sneakers.

She needed to do something normal. Something to push the thoughts away.

Ann raided the fridge and pantry, deciding on Robert’s favorite thick, cheesy lasagna with garlic bread and a simple green salad. The kitchen filled with comforting scents: sautéing onions and garlic sizzling in olive oil, the rich aroma of browning ground beef, melted mozzarella bubbling under the broiler. She chopped vegetables with precise, almost aggressive strokes, the knife thunking against the cutting board. By the time the front door opened, the house smelled like home cooked comfort.

Robert stepped inside, his work boots heavy on the mat. He looked tired but solid, bronzed arms dusted with sawdust, his t-shirt clinging slightly to his chest from the day’s heat. The faint smell of sweat and metal followed him in.

“Damn, something smells amazing,” he said, voice warm with surprise. “You made lasagna?”

Ann forced a bright smile, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “Yeah. Figured you deserved it after a long week. Sit down, it’s almost ready.”

They ate at the small kitchen table, the lasagna steaming on their plates, cheese stretching in gooey strands. The garlic bread was crisp and buttery, the salad fresh with a tangy vinaigrette. Robert dug in with obvious pleasure, letting out a low, satisfied groan that made Ann’s stomach tighten unexpectedly.

“This is fantastic, kiddo. You’ve gotten really good in the kitchen.”

Conversation flowed easily at first her classes, his latest job site drama, a funny story about a coworker who dropped an entire pallet of lumber. Ann laughed at the right moments, but her mind kept drifting. The way his strong hands held the fork. The low rumble of his voice. That same voice that had growled in pleasure days earlier.

She took a sip of water, the cool liquid sliding down her throat, and decided to test the waters. “So… Dad, have you been seeing anyone lately?”

Robert paused mid-bite, fork hovering. His eyebrows rose. “Seeing anyone? Where’s this coming from?”

Ann shrugged, trying to sound casual even as her pulse quickened. The memory of the redhead’s moans echoed in her ears. “It’s normal, right? I’m not a little girl anymore. I know the divorce was hard, but it’s been years. Mom’s been dating. I just… figured you might be too.”

He set his fork down, studying her with those familiar dark eyes. “I’m not making a life with anyone, Ann. Work keeps me busy enough.”

“But you can tell me the truth,” she pressed, leaning forward. Her voice was light, but inside something twisted jealousy, confusion, heat. “It’s okay if you’re seeing someone. Or… whatever.”

Robert’s expression shifted. A flicker of irritation crossed his face. “Ann, drop it. I said I’m not.”

The tension thickened. The savory smell of lasagna suddenly felt cloying. She couldn’t stop herself. “Why not? I saw you, okay? A couple weeks ago. I came home early and heard… everything. That woman in your room. Who the hell was she? Your girlfriend? Or just some prostitute you’re paying with money you barely have?”

Silence crashed over the table. Robert’s jaw tightened, the muscles in his neck standing out. He pushed his chair back with a harsh scrape against the floor, the sound cutting through the quiet house. His broad chest rose and fell heavily.

“That’s enough,” he said, voice low and controlled, but edged with anger. “This conversation is over. I’m going to my room.”

He stood, plate still half-full, and walked down the hallway without another word. His bedroom door clicked shut firmly behind him.

Ann sat frozen at the table, fork clenched in her hand. The house felt suddenly too small, the air heavy with leftover garlic and unspoken words. Her heart pounded against her ribs. "Why am I so mad?" she wondered. It wasn’t like she owned his personal life. He was a grown man. Yet the thought of him with that woman, of him groaning, thrusting, losing himself, made her chest ache with something sharp and confusing.

She cleared the table, the clatter of dishes loud in the empty kitchen. After everything was cleaned, she retreated to her own room. The space was dim, lit only by the bedside lamp that cast a soft golden glow across her bed. Ann kicked off her jeans, leaving her in a loose tank top and soft cotton shorts that rode high on her toned thighs. She flopped onto the mattress, the sheets cool against her bare legs.

The memory returned uninvited, stronger now in the quiet.

She closed her eyes and saw it again: the woman on all fours, ass raised, pussy stretched around a thick, pounding cock. The wet, obscene sounds of fucking. The heavy slap of balls against slick skin. The raw, animal rhythm. Ann’s breath grew shallow. A flush spread across her pale chest, her small nipples hardening into tight peaks that pressed against the thin fabric of her top.

Her hand slid slowly down her stomach, fingertips brushing the waistband of her shorts. She hesitated only a second before slipping beneath the fabric. Her pussy was already warm and slick, folds swollen with unwanted arousal. She let out a soft gasp as her fingers found her clit, circling it with slow, naughty strokes. The sensation was electric, wet, sensitive, needy.

In her mind, the scene played on loop: deep, powerful thrusts, the creak of the bed, the woman’s breathless moans turning into cries of pleasure. Ann’s fingers moved faster, dipping lower to tease her entrance before returning to her clit. Her hips rocked gently against her hand, the fabric of her shorts bunching up. The room filled with the faint, intimate sound of her wetness and her quickening breath.

She bit her lip to stay quiet, back arching slightly off the bed. The pleasure built in hot waves, tightening low in her belly. Her free hand squeezed one small breast, pinching the nipple just hard enough to send sparks down to her core. Faster. Harder. Imagining the intensity, the raw fucking, the thick cock driving deep.

A sharp, shuddering orgasm hit her. Ann’s thighs clamped around her hand as she came, pussy pulsing, a low, breathy whimper escaping her lips. Warmth flooded through her body, leaving her trembling and spent.

For a long moment she lay there, chest heaving, fingers still tucked inside her shorts, slick with her own juices. The afterglow felt heavy, almost guilty. She stared at the ceiling, the lamp’s light blurring slightly.

“What the hell am I thinking?” she whispered to the empty room, voice hoarse.

The house was silent. Somewhere down the hall, her father’s door remained closed. The air still carried the faint scent of lasagna, now mixed with the intimate musk of her own arousal. Ann pulled her hand free and rolled onto her side, pulling the covers over her flushed body. Sleep felt very far away.

Chapter 3 - Limit crossed

The next morning, sunlight filtered through the thin curtains of the small house, casting a warm glow across the kitchen. Ann came downstairs wearing a loose white blouse that draped softly over her small breasts and a pair of comfortable shorts. Her long dark hair was still slightly damp from the shower, carrying the fresh scent of her coconut shampoo. Robert was already at the table, eating a haphazardly made sandwich bread slightly torn, ham hanging out the sides, a sad slice of cheese slapped on top. He looked tired, the lines around his eyes deeper after a restless night.

They greeted each other with awkward politeness. “Morning, Dad,” Ann said quietly, pouring herself a glass of orange juice. The cool liquid felt sharp against her dry throat.

“Morning, sweetheart,” Robert replied, not quite meeting her eyes. The tension from last night’s argument still lingered in the air like static.

Ann sat across from him, fiddling with her glass. “Dad, about what happened last night…”

Robert raised a hand, stopping her gently. “Look, I overreacted. I’m not used to talking about… that kind of stuff with anyone, especially not my daughter. It caught me off guard.”

She nodded, relief mixing with something warmer in her chest. “It’s okay. I get it. The divorce with mom wasn’t easy for any of us, but you’ve built a life here. You deserve to move on, just like Mom did. And honestly… as a father, you’ve been more than admirable. All those long hours, sacrificing for me even when I wasn’t around. I see that.”

Robert’s expression softened. He reached across the table and took her hand in his. His palm was rough and warm, calloused from years of hard work, sending an unexpected spark up her arm. “Thank you, Ann. I couldn’t be prouder of the woman you’ve become. Really.”

They sat like that for a moment, the simple contact feeling both comforting and charged. The kitchen smelled of coffee and the faint, salty aroma of his sandwich. Ann glanced down at his plate and let out a small laugh, breaking the heaviness. “You know… you really do need a woman in the house. Look at that sandwich. It’s a crime.”

Robert chuckled, the sound deep and familiar. “What’s that supposed to mean? My cooking’s not that bad.”

She grinned, squeezing his hand once before letting go. “Just saying. Someone’s gotta save you from sad ham disasters.”

The rest of the day passed in a fragile peace. They ran small errands together, talked about her classes, and by evening, Ann suggested they watch a movie to “get back to normal.” Robert agreed, grabbing a six-pack of beer from the fridge. “Sounds good. Been a long week.”

They settled on the old couch in the living room. The lights were dimmed, the TV casting flickering blue light across the walls. Robert cracked open the first beer, the sharp hiss and malty scent filling the air. Ann sat close, closer than usual, her bare thigh brushing against his jeans. The movie was an action flick, explosions and car chases lighting up the screen, but neither was fully paying attention.

As the film progressed, Robert downed three more beers. The alcohol, combined with his exhausting workweek, hit him hard. His head grew heavy, eyes drooping. Soon, deep snores rumbled from his chest, his body slumping back against the cushions. His legs were spread slightly, the worn fabric of his shorts stretching over his muscular thighs.

Ann watched him for a long moment. He looked peaceful, vulnerable in sleep, his bronzed chest rising and falling under his t-shirt, stubble shadowing his jaw. The scent of beer and faint male sweat clung to him, warm and intimate in the small space. What started as a sweet impulse leaning her head on his broad shoulder shifted when her eyes drifted lower. There, in the dim light, something was stirring. The outline of his cock was becoming visible, thickening against the thin material of his shorts.

Her heart pounded. "Don’t look" she told herself, but curiosity burned hotter than shame. The memory of him with that woman flooded back, the powerful thrusts, the thick length she’d glimpsed. Her breath quickened, a flush spreading across her pale skin, nipples tightening under her blouse. Slowly, almost trembling, she placed her hand on his thigh, then higher, resting it lightly over the growing bulge.

Robert snored on, oblivious. Emboldened, Ann began to massage him gently through the fabric. Her fingers traced the hardening shape, feeling it swell and pulse under her touch. It grew thicker, longer, the heat radiating through the cloth. She bit her lip, thighs pressing together as wetness gathered between her legs. The living room was quiet except for his snores and the low drone of the movie. She stroked him more deliberately, fascinated by how he responded even in sleep, twitching, hardening fully until the head of his cock nearly peeked from the leg of his shorts.

Guilt crashed over her. "What the fuck am I doing?" She pulled her hand away sharply and stood up, legs shaky. The floorboards creaked softly under her feet as she turned toward her room. But a hot, insistent pulse between her thighs stopped her. She glanced back at him, his strong body relaxed, that prominent bulge still straining. Something primal, forbidden, pulled her back.

Ann returned, kneeling carefully in front of him on the couch. Her hands trembled as she hooked her fingers into the waistband of his shorts and eased them down just enough to free his cock. It sprang out heavily, thick and veined, the skin flushed dark. She’d never had one this close before. The scent was musky, masculine, sweat, skin, and a faint trace of pre-cum. Her mouth watered despite herself.

"Remember the videos" she thought, leaning in. Her first lick was tentative, running along the underside from base to tip. The taste was strange, salty, slightly bitter, but warm and alive. She kissed the head softly, feeling it twitch against her lips. Then she took him into her mouth, inexpertly, lips stretching around the girth. She sucked gently, tongue swirling clumsily, bobbing her head with inexperienced strokes. Drool escaped the corners of her mouth, dripping down his shaft. She wondered if it felt good for him, if he’d like the way she hollowed her cheeks or licked the sensitive underside.

Robert’s snores continued, but his cock throbbed harder in her mouth, leaking more salty fluid onto her tongue. Ann grew bolder, taking him deeper until she gagged softly, eyes watering. The sounds were wet and obscene, soft sucking, her quick breaths through her nose. Her free hand slipped between her own thighs, rubbing her soaked pussy through her shorts as she worked him.

After several minutes, she pulled back to catch her breath and licked rapidly at the swollen tip, flicking her tongue over the slit. Robert’s body tensed suddenly. A low groan escaped him in his sleep as thick ropes of cum erupted from his cock. The first spurt hit her cheek, hot and sticky, followed by more across her lips and chin. The taste was stronger now, coating her tongue as some landed in her open mouth. Ann froze, eyes wide, the reality slamming into her.

Panic surged. She quickly pulled his shorts back up, wiping her face frantically with the hem of her blouse. Cum smeared across her skin and fabric, the scent clinging to her. Heart hammering, she stood and fled to her room without looking back, closing the door softly behind her.

In the darkness of her bedroom, Ann leaned against the wall, breathing ragged. Her face burned with shame and leftover arousal. What the hell had she just done? Her body still hummed, pussy aching, lips tingling with the taste of him. She slid down to the floor, wondering why the forbidden thrill felt so intoxicating… and terrifying.

The house fell silent once more, the movie credits rolling unnoticed on the TV.