Our First Time (prequel to Mistake)

For you, Daddy. See you at midnight ????

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It started slow.

So slow neither of us could pinpoint the exact moment the shift happened.

Maybe it was always there--something unspoken in the air between us, something that made time slow whenever we were alone, something that lingered in every stolen glance, every almost-touch, every conversation stretched too long into the night.

Or maybe it was the house itself.

It was too big, too full of history, the kind of place where secrets tucked themselves into the corners, where the walls held stories no one dared to say out loud.

We lived in it like two forces constantly orbiting each other. Separate, but never quite apart.

He was the boss.

In charge. The one who made the rules, the one everyone listened to (including mom), the one who carried the weight of everything so effortlessly it was easy to forget it was even there.

He didn't ask for power. He just had it.

And me?

I was the problem.

The disruption in his carefully ordered world. The thing that pulled him just slightly off-centre, the thing that made his patience thin, his jaw clench, his gaze linger just a second too long when he thought I wasn't looking.

But I was always looking.

I watched the way he worked--methodical, controlled, always with a plan. I watched the way he took care of everything, how people leaned on him without realizing it, how he carried burdens that weren't even his.

I also watched the cracks in all of it.

The way his shoulders tensed when he thought no one could see. The way he sighed when the door shut behind him, relief and exhaustion curling together in the sound.

The way he looked at me sometimes.

Like he already knew what I was going to be to him before I did.

But we weren't there yet.

Not in the beginning.

---

The house was always quiet at night.

Too quiet, sometimes.

It made everything more noticeable. The creak of the stairs. The low hum of the fridge. The soft click of a door closing at the other end of the hall.

I liked that quiet. I liked the way it made things feel more real.

He was always up late. Mom worked nights and I think he enjoyed the time alone. No distractions.

Always working, always thinking, always moving between his office and his room like the day wasn't finished until he said it was.

I got used to hearing the sound of his footsteps at midnight, the way he never quite went to sleep when he should, the way his presence made the house feel just a little less empty.

But I never admitted that I waited for it.

That I listened for the familiar sounds, that I liked knowing he was awake too, that I sometimes found excuses to cross paths with him just to see what version of him i'd get.

He was different at night.

Less guarded.

Not softer, exactly--he wasn't the kind of man who ever truly let go--but something in him shifted when the world got quiet.

He spoke differently.

Sometimes with less patience, sometimes with more.

Sometimes his voice was sharp when he told me to go to bed, that I was pushing my luck, that I shouldn't test him.

Sometimes he just sighed and let me talk, let me sit there in his office or steal his chair or poke through his books while he finished whatever important thing he was doing.

He let me exist in his space.

He never sent me away.

Not really.

----

I don't know when the line started to blur.

Maybe it was the nights I made him laugh--a real one, not the half-smirks he usually gave, not the exasperated exhales when I pushed too hard.

A real laugh.

Deep, surprised, unguarded.

The sound of it did something to me.

Or maybe it was the first time I caught him looking at me when he thought I wouldn't notice.

Not just looking. Watching.

His eyes dark, unreadable, his fingers tapping against the desk like he was forcing himself not to move, not to do something he shouldn't.

I should have looked away.

I didn't.

I held his gaze, just long enough to see his jaw go tight, just long enough to watch him force his attention back to his work.

Just long enough to make us both aware that something had changed.

----

It was late.

Later than usual.

He was in his chair, one hand rubbing the bridge of his nose, tension radiating from every line of his body.

"Long day?" I asked, my voice soft, teasing, maybe even a little smug.

His fingers dropped from his face, and for the first time that night, he looked at me.

Fully.

His eyes swept over me, slow, assessing, something unreadable simmering behind them.

I felt it before I understood it.

The shift.

The moment.

The split-second where everything could have still gone back to normal--where he could have given me some dismissive answer, where I could have just gone to bed, where we both could have pretended.

But neither of us moved.

The air between us changed.

Tightened.

His fingers curled against the armrest of his chair.

I swallowed.

Then, soft, measured, like the words cost him something, he murmured,

"You should leave."

But we both knew I wouldn't.

I watched him fight it, felt him fight it.

The way his breathing slowed like he was trying to steady himself. The way his jaw went tight, like he was holding back words he didn't dare say out loud.

The way his hands twitched against the arms of his chair, like he was forcing them to stay there.

I knew that look.

I knew what restraint looked like on him.

But this was something else.

This wasn't calculated. This wasn't him thinking three steps ahead, controlling the situation like he always did.

This was reactive.

Instinctual.

Unraveling.

I took a slow step closer, testing, watching the way his eyes darkened, the way his fingers twitched like he was fighting the urge to reach for me.

God.

He wanted me.

The realization hit me like a physical thing.

Not the way I had thought he did, in passing, in flashes, in little ways he could ignore.

He wanted me.

With his whole body.

With everything he was trying to push down.

It was written all over him.

"Why?" I asked softly, tilting my head.

His nostrils flared slightly. "Why what?"

I took another step, close enough now that I could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed.

"Why should I leave?"

His fingers tightened on the chair.

He was losing the fight.

I could see it.

Feel it.

His control--his precious, iron-clad control--was slipping.

And I wanted to see what happened when it broke.

I leaned in slightly, dropping my voice to something soft, almost teasing. "Are you afraid of something, Daddy?"

His jaw clenched.

"Careful," he warned, voice rough.

But there was no real threat there.

Just heat.

Just restraint stretched too thin.

"Or what?" I pressed, eyes locked on his, pushing, testing.

His hands shot forward.

Before I could react, before I could even breathe, he had me.

Fingers locked around my wrist, grip firm but not rough, possessive.

A muscle jumped in his jaw, and his chest rose and fell with heavy, controlled breaths, like he was trying to talk himself down.

But I could feel it.

The warmth of his skin.

The heat in his gaze.

The absolute certainty in the way he was holding me, like he had just realized something at the same time I had.

He wanted me.

And he wasn't going to stop it.

I wet my lips, tilting my head.

"You're not supposed to touch me like this," I murmured.

His grip tightened.

I saw the moment he stopped caring.

"Fuck," he muttered under his breath, almost like he was mad at himself.

And then his hands were on me.

Gripping. Pulling. Claiming.

The chair scraped against the floor as he pushed up to his feet, towering over me, his body radiating heat.

My breath caught as he crowded into my space, one hand sliding up to grip the back of my neck, his thumb pressing against the pulse hammering beneath my skin.

Turning me around to face him, he kissed me.

Really kissed me. Like I was the sexiest thing he had ever encountered...

Then he was everywhere.

Taking up too much space, his scent, his heat, the way his breath was uneven as he fought a war I knew he was about to lose.

I looked up at him, heart racing.

"Say it," I whispered.

His fingers flexed against me.

His breathing was unsteady.

I swore I felt a shudder go through him.

Then, voice raw, low, wrecked, he rasped, "I want you. I need to have you, to taste you."

I move slowly, backwards, sliding effortlessly into his chair. Lifting my legs, displaying myself, showing Daddy my pretty little panties.

Hands gripping my thighs. Breath hot against my skin.

Desperate. Aching. Starving for me.

He is supposed to be the one in charge.

He is supposed to be the one who makes me stand at attention.

He is supposed to be the one who holds all the control.

But not tonight.

"Please, Babygirl."

His fingers twitch against my skin, his jaw clenched so fucking tight, like he's trying to hold onto the last shred of control he has left.

Babygirl... mmm.

But... he doesn't have any.

Not with me.

"Let me taste you."

I hum, dragging my fingers slowly through his hair.

"Why?"

You groan, tilting your face up, lips so close I can feel the heat of your breath.

"Because I fucking need it."

"Need what, Daddy?"

His fingers dig in, his body shaking with frustration, with need, with the absolute fucking hunger of this.

Daddy knows what i'm doing.

And fuck, that only makes him harder.

"Your cunt, Babygirl."

His breath is ragged now. Uneven. Shaking.

His cock is aching, throbbing, fucking dripping for me, I suspect needing me always makes him hard.

"Need my mouth on you. Need to feel you on my tongue. Need to fucking ruin you with my mouth."

His voice breaks on it.

"Please, let me have what's mine."

I exhale slow.

Because fuck, this is perfect.

My grip tightens in his hair, tilting his head back, making sure he sees me.

"Then show me how badly you want it."

I watch as his whole body shudders.

His mouth moves against my thigh, kissing, biting, sucking, moaning into my skin.

"I need you, Babygirl."

"I need to taste you."

His voice is raw, desperate, a full-body plea.

"I need to make you cum on my tongue. I need you soaking my face. I need you riding my mouth until you fucking break for me."

His cock is throbbing in his pants, straining, desperate, fucking leaking for me.

"Please."

His lips are so close.

"Please, let me taste what's mine. I think i'm going crazy"

My fingers tighten in his hair.

I tug. Hard.

A wrecked, ruined groan rips out of his throat.

"Say it again. Tell me how you're not supposed to want me, Daddy"

His whole body jerks.

"Please, Babygirl."

"Please, let me taste you."

"Please, let me have my sweet daughter's silky smooth cunt? I need it, Babygirl. I need your body. It's so wrong - daddy is obsessed... needing his Babygirl to cum on his tongue."

Fuck.

He's gone.

Wrecked. Ruined. Completely fucking desperate for me.

And now?

Now, Daddy is ready.

My fingers untangle from his hair, sliding under his chin, tilting his face up.

I slide my panties off my hips and up my long legs, leaving them dangling on my big toe.

"Open your mouth, Daddy."

His lips part, instantly, instinctively.

Good.

"Don't waste a drop."

When his warm, wet tongue finally reaches my aching pussy, my own guard falls to the floor and I groan, a deep guttural sound seeping from my lips as if I was feeling real pleasure for the first time in my life.

I lost track of how many times he made me cum that night. Wave after wave of pleasure passing through me, soaking his face with my juices.

Heaven.

Finally, standing to his feet and as if to reward himself for his good work, he thrusts himself into me. Giving me every inch of the cock that made me.

He was not the gentle, kind daddy that shows up every once in a while when things are in order.

No, this daddy was like an animal - grunting, moaning, scratching and biting... like his instincts had taken over and he just needed to cum.

No

Matter

The

Stakes.

And he did cum.

Fuck, did he ever.

My own father painted my body in his hot, sticky daddy cum. It was the sexiest thing I had experienced in my entire life.

And fuck...

I wanted more. So much more.