He'd fucked her. Several times.
He sits up to lean over on one elbow and lets his eyes drag across her nubile young body. The burgundy sheet has pooled around her hips and Nick watches her full breasts rise and fall as she sleeps deeply, peacefully. Unconsciously, his lungs slow to match her pace.
Kitten. She became Kitten last night.
For a moment he wonders how long he'll play along with that, how long he'll encourage her pretending. But as he thinks back on the night, the realization rises and boils over in him: "playing along" isn't in the cards. She isn't pretending. What happened last night wasn't play. She stepped out of her chrysalis and unfolded her shimmering wings. She truly became someone else.
And so did he. Last night cracked him open. Last night opened doors inside him, knocked down walls between old and new, a burning spaciousness in his chest making him feel bigger, younger, more himself. Every breath comes easier and deeper.
The torment in him is gone. The handwringing and standoffish fatherly behavior is over, those worries vanished like a sigh in a storm.
He is now all-in as the man who met this little slut in her heat and fucked her hard and repeatedly. He is the man who gave her the space to confront her own needs to fuck, and to take an emotional step she couldn't have done otherwise. In the light of day, Nick is filled with a kind of . . . pride in himself, in the man he had been in that moment last night—the moment he'd pushed her right up to the edge of herself, so that all she had to do was take the leap into. . . becoming Kitten. That kind of forceful intensity was new for him, called into being by her need. She had
needed
him to push her to that edge. She had needed him to pull back the curtains and awaken her.
A streak of orange light through the window stretches languidly across her pink nipples and he muses as a mote drifts across the beam. All his senses are heightened, fueled by some sense f genesis he hasn't ever felt before. He leans on his elbow gazing at his freshly-fucked daughter, his cum probably still leaking out of her, and the pride he feels tells him something has awoken in him, too. He likes being this man.
He'd loved fucking her, of course. Her body is magnificent and she'd been a powerhouse of sexual need and energy. But that push—his moving her to her own edge and watching her willingly throw herself over into whatever lay beyond, into whatever "being Kitten" might mean—that was the sexiest thing he can remember experiencing. In that moment a new version of himself erupted into being from somewhere deep inside him. One with its own set of needs and an aptitude for sexual control. Dominance. The memory of it fills him with a feeling of power. And lust.
Nick realizes that his cock is rock hard, and the insistence he suddenly feels in his body brings him back to this present moment. But the deliciousness of the lust that thrums through his veins is not just physical. Her willing response to him demanding that she leap into the unknown fills him with an almost spiritual hunger for something he's now tasted and wants more of. It is a razor sharp need with a dark edge that is beyond his ability to fight. It's like there's something new in his blood, something now coursing through his being that feels. . . bigger than him somehow. Like a tiger that's been pacing in its cage for so long, and now has begun to step through the open door. He wonders how far this new side of him will take things. He is tempted to wake her up and use her again. To just keep fucking this willing young thing that happens to be his daughter.
A moment from the night before flashes back to him--a moment on the couch when they were grunting like animals and he'd felt something very. . . specific in how she moved, how she breathed, how she grinned in abandon.
Something he recognized.
(Whoa.)
Suddenly his mind takes him back more years than he wants to admit, to when he and Carol were newlyweds, long before the divorce. On certain nights while they tumbled in bed, she had. . . transformed. She'd come out of herself with passion. Flown into a glorious frenzy and awakening of deep hunger in her that made him feel like he was seeing her true self for the first time. They'd fucked mindlessly then, her pussy flowing with need, her skin flushed with endless release. It was those nights when they got adventurous: she'd voraciously demanded he fuck her in the ass, spank her, choke her. They'd gone for hours, moaning and screaming, afterward sleeping the deepest of sleeps in each others arms.
In the mornings, what they'd experienced and discovered together had filled him with joy. But her strict Catholic upbringing tortured her with shame. She had hated that thing inside her and how she. . . became someone else when it surfaced. And she started to hate him for witnessing—and loving— what she was so ashamed of in herself. It had taken years but had finally broken them as a couple.
She'd then gone to a man who was, Nick had to admit, a good guy but a bit judgmental and dry as dust. In the years since, Carol seemed happy-ish, but her smile was always pinched, her laugh guarded, her eyes darting. No one else knew, but he could see easily past the mask: she had decided to spend her life fighting what she actually was and what she actually needed. She had decided that her happiness was a fair price for being able to fit into the box labelled "what other people think I should be."
Nick returns to the present and Kitten coos quietly in her sleep, a tiny smile on her face, her plump breasts sliding deliciously as she rolls onto her side. Her lips part on an exhale. Ever so gently, she bucks her hips a few times, lost in what Nick decides can only be a deliciously sexual dream. He blinks at her, considering. The way his girl had fucked him last night--she had gloried in their two bodies melting together and radiated with beauty. All of it clicks together in his mind--the aggressive flirting that seemed to bring her out of her trauma, the grinding on his lap that was almost unconscious, the raunchy lap dance that came so naturally, the power of their bodies exploding towards each other—all of it makes one thing perfectly clear to him.
She's her mother's daughter in a very special way. He takes a moment to wonder if hereditary nymphomania is a real thing, but then decides he doesn't care. It's what brings her back to herself, what makes her feel alive. His daughter was made for fucking, for devouring and being devoured. For opening her legs and letting her body melt into another's. Her purpose. And he worries that if she cannot fulfill her purpose, she'll be miserable. He smirks at himself, at what a strangely fatherly concern this is, while at the same time his throbbing cock and the lust roiling in him demand that he lift her ankles to his shoulders and plunge his solid flesh into her again. Now. He wants to take her to that place where she loses herself, where she gives herself to him, where he owns everything about her. His mouth waters.
The new, dark hunger in him wants it. It wants to fuck her, use her, control her. It also tells him she's going to need some rules, and lust flares white hot in the pit of his stomach as he considers that.
His daughter is a natural slut, and Nick wants to do everything he can to encourage it because he absolutely wants to keep fucking her. But also—and more importantly—he's going to encourage her blossoming into a slut because he wants to take care of her. It's the glowing seed of truth inside her, and it's not going anywhere. It's who she is and he won't let her build walls around that truth, shut herself off and become a miserable half-of-a-person like Carol did. She was made for fucking and there's no denying it. But a beautiful and horny young girl like her could easily be destroyed in this cynical world, and he's not going to let that happen either.
Sighing, he rises and heads for the kitchen.
—-
Kitten awakes to the smell of coffee wafting down the hall and into her consciousness.
Opening her eyes, she finds herself alone in her father's bed, her naked pussy feeling deliciously well-used. Memories of the night before come flooding back, bringing with them a bloom of warmth and happiness that blossoms in a wide, slow grin.
He'd really done it. He'd really fucked her. Hard. He'd fucked her gloriously, passionately, beautifully hard. Her pussy warms and moistens as she lets herself soak in the memories of their tongues together, their sweat together, the moments when he shot his hot cum inside her. Sex had never felt that good before, with others. She had never felt as overwhelmingly desired, as fully satisfied, or as truly known as she had last night. She squirms a little in the bed, happy in ways she never expected.
Lazily, she picks at a length of her now platinum-blonde hair. "Kitten. . . " she whispers to herself, regarding the color first a bit clinically, then with a loving warmth as she remembers all the new changes that have accompanied it. She's going to love being Kitten. She already does.
The need hits her deep in the chest. She needs to find him.
She puts her long hair up in a messy ponytail and pads naked to the kitchen, her footfalls a delicate duet with the morning birdsong outside.
There he is. Her heartbeat stutters as she observes him at the stove, stirring eggs and wearing the silk robe he must have rescued from the couch after last night.
She pauses at the doorway, unsure.
