On The Edge 20

On the Edge

for you, daddy🖤

you ruined me for anyone else, and i wouldn't have it any other way.

this one's ours.

-- your little girl 🩰

----

I shouldn't be jealous.

But I am.

I'm not supposed to want more. I'm not supposed to feel like this when he smiles at her, touches her hand, pours her wine like he hasn't just wrecked me the night before.

Like I don't still have bruises in the shape of his fingers.

He's sitting right there--across from me, next to her--and I swear I can still feel him inside me.

And it makes me crazy.

Because he's pretending again.

Being the version of himself that still belongs to her. Still plays house.

Still acts like I'm not the one he needs.

* * *

I push the bread basket a little too hard across the table.

Make a snarky comment about something she says.

It's small. Petty. Deliberate.

But it makes his jaw clench.

And I feel it--right then--that shift.

He sees me.

And I want him to snap.

I want him to take me to the bathroom, bend me over the sink, and make me regret every word.

But he doesn't.

Of course he doesn't.

He just lets his hand drift back to her thigh. Smiles. Pretends.

And I swear I might fucking scream.

* * *

Mom tucks her credit card back into her wallet, smiling at the waiter as she sets down the receipt.

"All set?" she asks, looking between us.

I nod too quickly.

Daddy, on the other hand, moves slow--deliberate--rolling his shoulders back like he's still holding something inside him.

Something he refuses to let out.

I want to scream.

Instead, I smile.

"All set, Babygirl?"

A look from Mom. It still surprises her that Daddy calls me his Babygirl, even now that I'm a grown-ass adult. Technically, anyway.

The three of us push out into the night, the warm air thick around us, the restaurant's soft golden glow spilling onto the sidewalk.

Mom hooks her arm through Daddy's, leaning into him as she laughs.

"Thanks for joining us for dinner, baby."

My stomach knots.

Baby.

I clench my fists, forcing my expression to stay neutral.

Daddy just hums in response, his fingers flexing slightly where they rest against her hip.

Like he doesn't even realize he's doing it.

Like touching her is just habit.

Like it doesn't mean anything.

It shouldn't bother me.

I tell myself that over and over as we step onto the pavement, as we move toward the parking lot, as I watch him walk her to her car like a good husband.

Like a man with nothing to hide.

The bastard.

* * *

Mom stops at her car, leaning against the driver's side door as she looks up at Daddy.

She smiles. "See you guys at home?"

My pulse spikes.

She thinks we're leaving together.

She thinks we're all going home.

Daddy hesitates.

It's brief--just a flicker of something across his face, something tight, something unreadable--but I see it.

And I know what it means.

No, he's not coming home soon.

He's coming with me.

My breath hitches, a wicked thrill curling through my stomach, mingling with the jealousy still burning under my ribs.

Mom doesn't notice.

"Yep, just need to stop by the office. I forgot some paperwork for the Jenson file and obviously he's texting me on a Friday night for an update..."

She reaches up, smoothing her fingers over Daddy's collar like it's second nature, like she's done it a thousand times before.

Like she belongs to him.

My nails dig into my palms.

"Ugh, he's got to learn some limits. You're too good to your clients," she says softly. "Sweetheart, do you want to ride with me?"

"Naw, it's ok, I'll ride with Dad. I don't think I can manage another Shania Twain sing-along. No offence, Mom!"

Mom giggles. "I have the voice of an angel!"

"Sure, Mom. Angels."

"I sense some sarcasm! I'm headed to bed the second I get home so I'll see you guys in the morning!"

-----

I hate how easy it is for her.

How she can say it out loud, how she doesn't have to hide, how she doesn't have to beg for his attention.

How she doesn't have to fight for it.

Daddy nods, his jaw ticking as he bends down, pressing a brief, casual kiss to her cheek.

Nothing intense.

Nothing passionate.

Nothing that should matter.

But it does.

It fucking does.

My whole body goes tight, my breath locking in my throat as I turn away, swallowing hard against the sharp, ugly feeling clawing up my chest.

She gets to have him.

The world lets her have him.

And I--

I get nothing.

At least, not yet.

Mom slips into her car, waving as she pulls out of the lot.

I barely register the way Daddy watches her drive away, rolling his shoulders again, like something in him is unraveling.

I don't care.

Because the second she's gone--

The second we're alone--

I move.

I push forward.

And finally--

He lets me. I plant a big kiss right on his lips.

-----

And then--

A voice behind us.

"Oh--hey, Mr. Green"

I freeze.

A waiter from the restaurant stands a few feet away, cigarette between his fingers, clearly on a break.

Daddy turns smoothly, nodding once. "Evening."

I should say nothing.

I should stand here, quiet and polite, pretending I'm just the daughter, the good girl, the one who isn't dripping down her thighs just from watching him kiss his wife.

But I don't.

I can't.

Because the moment I feel the heat of his gaze land back on me, the moment his eyes flick down--just for a second--to where my legs press together, I crack.

And I say it.

"Daddy," I murmur. Soft. Sweet. Too familiar.

The waiter's cigarette pauses halfway to his lips.

Daddy's hand flexes at his side.

For a split second, the world holds its breath.

Then, casual as anything, Daddy exhales, shaking his head.

"She's always been a little needy," he says smoothly. "Probably still coming down from the sugar rush of dessert."

The waiter laughs, shaking his head. "I see..."

Daddy just smirks. "or something like that."

I burn.

My entire body burns.

He nods at the waiter. "Have a good night."

And then he's walking toward the truck, opening the passenger door for me, waiting.

I can still feel the waiter's eyes on me.

But I don't look back.

I just slide into the truck, my entire body vibrating, my fingers curling against my thighs as Daddy closes the door behind me.

The second he's behind the wheel, the second the engine rumbles to life, I exhale shakily.

He doesn't even look at me.

Just grips the wheel, his knuckles tight.

Like nothing happened.

Like I didn't just call him Daddy in front of a stranger. After that stranger saw us eat dinner as a family and then saw me kiss my dad. On the lips.

Like he's not about to destroy me for it.

I press my thighs together, fighting a shiver as the truck pulls onto the road.

He's still holding back.

But not for much longer.

* * *

The truck rumbles beneath us, the cab dark except for the faint glow of the dashboard.

Daddy hasn't said a word since we left the restaurant.

Hasn't looked at me.

Hasn't touched me.

But I can feel it--the tension radiating off him, thick and electric, wrapping around my throat like a warning.

I swallow hard, shifting in my seat, gripping the hem of my dress.

And then--

He turns.

Not toward home.

Not toward the highway.

Toward nothing.

I blink, glancing out the window.

We're pulling into an empty lot behind a service station, a place that might have once been used for deliveries, now just cracked pavement and the occasional car pulling in for gas.

My pulse kicks.

"This isn't--"

The truck jerks to a stop.

The engine cuts.

Silence.

Then--

Daddy unbuckles his seatbelt, turns his head slowly, and stares me down.

"You think that little stunt at dinner was funny?"

My breath hitches.

"I--"

His hand shoots out, gripping my thigh, fingers digging in just enough to make me gasp.

"You want to act like a little slut?" His voice is low, dangerous. "Then open the door."

My stomach flips.

"What?"

"You heard me."

I swallow, my entire body shaking as I reach for the handle, pushing open the passenger door.

Cool air rushes in, the distant hum of cars on the highway, the flicker of a gas station light cutting through the darkness.

I turn back, eyes wide.

His door is already open.

His boots hit the pavement.

And before I can say anything--

He's grabbing me, pulling me out of the truck, spinning me, bending me over the side.

His body presses against mine, heavy and unyielding, pinning me to the metal.

I gasp, my palms flat against the cool surface of the truck door, the night air sharp against my bare thighs.

"Daddy--"

His hand slides up my spine, curling around the back of my neck.

"You wanted to play games tonight, Babygirl?"

I shudder.

His other hand trails between my legs, teasing, testing--

Then--

A car door slams nearby.

My whole body locks up.

Someone is at the gas pump.

Close.

Not close enough to see us, but--

Oh god.

My breath catches. I squirm, but Daddy tightens his grip.

"Stay still." His voice is dark, molten, completely unbothered by the fact that we could get caught.

My heart pounds.

He unzips his jeans.

I can't breathe.

I can't think.

His cock head slips inside me.

I bite my lip hard, my whole body trembling against the truck.

"Good girl. Your little baby pussy is just drooling for me."

I whimper, my thighs clenching around his thickness, every nerve in my body on fire.

His teeth graze my ear.

"You wanted this."

I nod frantically, unable to speak.

He pushes deeper.

The gas pump clicks.

Footsteps shuffle.

Someone is right there.

And Daddy--

Daddy doesn't care.

He pulls out slow, leaving me empty and aching, his cock slick and throbbing against my ass.

"Not done with you," he growls, slapping the head against my clit just to make me jump.

I gasp, legs trembling, still bent over the side of the truck, still dripping, still wide open for him.

Then he slides two fingers into me, fast and deep, curling them until I'm choking on my own moan.

"You're gonna take it," he breathes, "every drop I didn't give you."

And then he's shoving those same fingers into my mouth, making me taste myself, making me gag around them while he strokes himself over my ass and paints me with his cum.

It's filthy. It's wrong. And it makes me want more.

He zips up like nothing happened. Leaves me shaking, dripping, used.

Not even a glance as he starts the truck.

And I sit there beside him, thighs sticky, cunt raw, heart thudding with bitter, desperate need.

---

Pulling into the driveway, I'm bitter he has so much control over me now.

I know he wants it as much as I do. I know he's constantly aching to fill my holes with load after load of his hot daddy cum.

"I have some work to do. I will come see you when I'm done."

"Fine."

Ugh.

----

I try and wait. I really do. But I just can't. I have too much to say.

I don't knock.

I push into his office, shutting the door behind me, locking it.

My whole body is shaking, my pulse a frantic drum against my ribs, my skin aching for him.

And him?

He's just watching.

Calm. Composed. Sitting in his chair like he didn't just ruin me out in the open air.

He tilts his head.

"Problem?"

I glare.

"I hate you."

His smirk is slow. Dangerous.

"Yeah? I think you meant to say thank you Daddy for fucking my little whore pussy with your big cock...."

I cross the room in three quick steps, slamming my hands against his desk, leaning in close enough to feel the heat of him.

"I actually came here to say that I hate you," I say again, voice trembling.

"I hate how you look at me like I'm not losing my mind and how you act like you're fine. I hate how you let me sit there at dinner while you touch her."

His jaw tics.

I lick my lips, breath shaky.

"You think I don't see it?" I whisper. "The way you hold back? The way you want me, even when she's right there?"

I drop my voice lower, pressing the words between us like a blade.

"You think I don't feel it?"

His restraint snaps.

The next second, I'm bent over his desk.

His hand is fisting my hair, holding my head back, his breath hot against my ear.

"You really want to do this?" he growls.

I gasp, fingers scrambling against the wood.

He doesn't let go.

"You think I don't see you?" he murmurs. "You think I don't hear you in the mornings when you're touching yourself? You think I don't know how bad you want it?"

I whimper.

His grip tightens.

"Say it."

My stomach clenches.

"I--" My breath stumbles. "I don't know."

Wrong answer.

His free hand slides down my body, fingers slipping under the waistband of my panties.

My breath stutters.

"Say you want me to fuck you," he murmurs against my ear. "Say you want your own father... the one who made you with his cum, the cum you're about to be filled up with... to bend you over this desk and make you forget how to fucking breathe."

I shouldn't.

I can't.

But I tilt my chin up, lips parting, eyes burning with challenge.

"I do. I want it. I want my little pussy fucked. Even if it's wrong... Make me forget how to breathe, Daddy. Please."

I exhale... a confusing mix of defeat and relief.

"Strip. All of it. I want to see my hot little daughter's naked body. I want to see your sweet babygirl juices drip down your thighs. Desperate..."

My breath stumbles.

I blink.

His expression doesn't change.

"You heard me."

I swallow, my pulse kicking, my fingers trembling as I reach for the hem of my dress.

It slides over my skin, soft and slow, pooling at my feet.

Daddy doesn't move.

His eyes drag over me, lazy, assessing, but he doesn't reach for me. Doesn't touch.

I hate him for it.

Want him more for it.

My body hums, waiting, aching--

And then--

"Go to your room."

My stomach drops.

"What?"

His smirk is wicked. "I said go."

I stare.

"But--"

His brows lift.

"You wanted to be a brat tonight?" His voice is low, amused. "Then go wait for me."

I swallow, my whole body hot and tight, my breath uneven.

"I don't--"

"You do."

He leans forward, elbows on his desk, voice dark and knowing.

"You're going to go upstairs, and you're going to touch yourself."

My thighs clench.

His smirk deepens. "And you're going to think about Daddy."

I exhale, my entire body trembling.

"Do not cum."

My stomach knots.

I bite my lip, nodding frantically, already aching.

His voice is smooth. Lazy. Cruel.

"I'll come find you when I'm ready."

My pulse stutters.

And then, before I can beg, before I can break--

"Go, Babygirl."

I turn on shaky legs, heart pounding, body burning, the weight of his command sinking into my skin.

I scurry, bare-assed, down the hall and up the stairs to my room and jump in my bed.

* * *

I barely remember walking up the stairs.

Don't remember closing the door.

Don't remember collapsing onto my bed, my body tight, my breath ragged, my fingers already gripping the sheets.

All I know is that I'm alone.

Alone with my need.

Alone with the burning ache he left inside me.

Alone with his words, still curling around my ribs, wrapping tight like a ribbon.

"You're going to touch yourself."

"You're going to think about Daddy."

"Do not cum."

I whimper, rolling onto my stomach, pressing my face into the pillows, my body a live wire.

He knew this would wreck me.

Knew I wouldn't be able to stop myself.

Knew that the second my fingers slid between my thighs, I'd be gasping his name.

And I do.

I say it into the dark, over and over, whispering it against my own skin like a prayer.

"Daddy."

"Daddy, please."

But there's no answer.

No footsteps.

No door opening.

Nothing but silence and the unbearable knowledge that he's making me wait.

That somewhere downstairs, he's sitting at his desk, untouched, unbothered, calm--

While I'm up here, wrecking myself for him.

* * *

Minutes pass.

Maybe hours.

I don't know anymore.

All I know is the ache.

The slow, torturous way my body winds tighter and tighter, begging for relief that I can't take.

I'm grinding against my own hand now, desperate and aching, fucking myself with slick fingers while imagining his voice, his hands, his cock... the heat of his breath as he tells me I'm his.

My thighs twitch. I edge again. And again. Tears sting my eyes.

I whisper his name like it's the only thing keeping me tethered to this world.

"Please, Daddy... please..."

But I don't stop. I can't. I'm soaked, panting, delirious with need.

The sheets are a mess. My legs are sticky. My clit's swollen, hypersensitive.

And still--no release.

He owns me. Even when he's not here.

My thighs tremble.

My breath stutters.

I can't stop.

But I can't finish.

Because he told me not to.

Because his voice is still in my head, controlling me, keeping me right at the edge, keeping me desperate.

I turn onto my back, staring at the ceiling, panting, shaking.

I am nothing but need.

Nothing but his.

And still--

He doesn't come. I still don't cum.

* * *

I'm barely aware of the sound at first.

Barely aware of the soft click of my bedroom door creaking open.

But when I feel it--

When I feel the weight of his gaze land on me--

Something inside me shatters.

My breath catches.

My whole body tightens.

And then--

"Oh, Babygirl."

My eyes snap open.

He's there.

Standing in the doorway.

Watching me.

And he knows.

He knows I've been a mess without him.

He knows I've been begging into the dark, touching myself, whispering his name, obeying him.

He knows I'm already ruined.

And the way he smirks--the slow, dark, satisfied way he takes me in--

I know exactly what he's about to do.

-------

He doesn't move at first.

Just stands there, filling the doorway, watching me tremble.

His smirk is slow, dark, so fucking cruel.

"You're such a good girl..."

The words sink into my skin, wrapping around my ribs, pressing deep into the ache already curling between my thighs.

I whimper, my whole body tense and waiting.

Daddy finally steps inside.

Slow. Measured.

I watch his every move, barely breathing as he closes the door behind him, locking us in.

"Let me see."

I shudder.

Slowly--so slowly I think I might die from it--I spread my legs.

His gaze darkens.

And then--

"Oh, sweetheart."

He sees everything.

How needy I am.

How wrecked I am.

How much I've already done to myself trying to be good for him.

His tongue flicks over his bottom lip.

And then he shakes his head.

"Did I tell you to stop?"

* * *

My breath stumbles.

I blink. "W-What?"

His smirk is sharp. "Keep going."

My stomach drops.

I bite my lip, my body flushing so hot I think I might burn.

"Daddy--"

"I didn't say you could stop, Babygirl."

I whimper, my hands trembling as I reach down again, obeying, giving him exactly what he wants.

His voice is low, smooth, soaked in satisfaction.

"That's it, sweetheart. Keep going. Make a mess for me."

And I do.

Because what else can I do?

He's still fully dressed.

Still untouched.

Still watching me with those dark, unrelenting eyes, making me fall apart before he's even laid a hand on me.

I arch off the bed, gasping, whining, squirming.

He finally moves.

Strips off his shirt, his jeans, his boxers--until he's bare and hard and towering over me.

"Spread wider," he says, voice like smoke. "I want to see where you've been touching yourself."

I obey, breath caught in my throat.