Claiming Daddy, Part 4

I tried not to press my nose like an eight-year-old waiting for Santa. And I succeeded. In part. There were no smudges on my windows when Dad’s beat-up old Ford rattled to a stop in my driveway. My heart pitter-pattered as he took his rusty metal toolbox out of the bed and sauntered towards my front door. As if he wasn’t coming over here just to fuck his daughter.

My teacup shook a bit as I sat it down on the end table. I was pretty sure Dad would go where I wanted to take him. But… Dad was old fashioned. He might not react the way I wanted him to. I had to go slow. Ease him into the servitude I envisioned.

I opened the door before he could knock, smiling at his surprised expression. He wore his oldest jeans and a flannel shirt rolled up to the elbows, playing the part of the helpful father fixing his daughter's leaky faucet. My pussy fluttered. Already panting.

"Right on time," I said, stepping aside to let him in. "The kitchen sink is acting up again."

Dad nodded, his eyes already scanning my body in the thin sundress I'd chosen. No bra, no panties – just cotton and the promise of easy access. The toolbox clanked as he set it down, the sound unnaturally loud in the quiet house.

"Show me what's wrong," he said, his voice carefully neutral.

I led him to the kitchen, hyperaware of his presence behind me. The sink looked perfectly fine, of course. I'd run the water that morning to make sure everything worked properly. But Dad didn't need to know that.

"It's been dripping all night," I lied smoothly, leaning over the counter to point at the faucet. The position made my dress ride up, exposing the backs of my thighs. "Right there. Can you see?"