The kitchen smelled like sex and sweat, a thick haze of it clinging to the air as I sat there, still catching my breath. Mia sprawled across the table, her body limp and glistening, those boiled eggs--our fucked-up breakfast--cradled in her hands like some perverse prize. She licked them again, slow and deliberate, her tongue dragging over the slick surface, catching the last traces of my cum and her own musk. Her eyes flicked up to mine, that kooky grin spreading wide, and I felt my cock twitch despite the ache in my balls. This girl was a goddamn force of nature, and I was still reeling from the fact that she knew--knew every dark corner of my mind from those Literotica stories I'd buried under "DaddyLove39."
But Stacy... fuck. Stacy was coming home in a few hours, and the weight of that hit me like a sledgehammer. My daughter--my real daughter--had fed Mia all this intel, set this whole thing up like some twisted puppet master. How much did she know? How much did she want to know? The thought should've killed my hard-on dead, but instead, it sent a jolt through me, a sick mix of dread and curiosity I couldn't shake.
Mia slid off the table, her bare feet slapping the tile, and straddled my lap without warning. Her wet cunt pressed against my thigh, smearing me with her juices, and she leaned in close, her breath hot against my ear. "Stacy's gonna love this, Daddy," she purred, nipping my earlobe hard enough to sting. "She's been dying to see you let loose."
I grabbed her hips, my fingers digging into her flesh, and growled, "What the fuck does that mean, Mia? What's she told you?"
She giggled, rocking against me, her nipples brushing my chest through my soaked shirt. "Oh, she's told me everything. How she found your stories, how she'd lie awake at night wondering if you'd ever act on them. She's not mad, Daddy. She's jealous--jealous she didn't get to you first."
Before I could process that, the sound of tires crunching gravel hit my ears. My heart stopped. Mia's grin widened, feral and wicked, as she hopped off me and darted to the window. "She's here!" she squealed, clapping her hands like a kid on Christmas morning. "Oh, this is gonna be so fucking good."
I stumbled to my feet, yanking my jeans up, my mind a mess of panic and arousal. The front door creaked open, and there she was--Stacy, my daughter, dropping her duffel bag in the hall. She looked the same as always: dark hair pulled back, that familiar smirk, but there was something new in her eyes, something sharp and knowing. She stepped into the kitchen, taking in the scene--Mia naked and dripping, me disheveled and reeking of sex, the table a fucking crime scene of fluids and eggs.
