This story came about from my fascination and, I guess you could even say fetish, for dominant daddies with large muscles and . . . weapons of mass destruction, so to speak. But there are still some soft and cute elements to it due to me being a hopeless romantic at heart. I wrote it purely for fun and with the intention of writing mindless smut, but constructive criticism is appreciated if you wish to give it. Just note that I'm throwing realism out the window here. I know how some people like to critique it when guys with giant dicks are written into the story.
~*~
I was almost two years old when my father took custody of me. My mother--who I now refer to as "the woman who gave birth to me"--decided keeping me was a bad idea, and couldn't deal with the responsibility of raising a child. At least, that's what my father told me her reason for giving me up was. Since then all I had were mother figures, but they were all women who's faces are blurred together by now. These women consisted of mostly big-breasted, 20- or 30-something females who my father had dated at some point. I barely remember any of their names now, and I doubt even my father does either, there were so many of them. Over the years they started to decrease in numbers, though, until my father stopped dating all together around the time I hit puberty, and instead settled for one-night stands.
To the rest of the world, my father is known as Sage, the wrestler who was always ahead of the game during his prime, having won many championships. He's long since retired from wrestling, though, after the embarrassment of losing probably the most hyped-up championship of his career. Although a long time has passed since that day, I can still see his loss haunting him just from the tired, defeated look in his eyes. They're only glimmers, but for me they've always been easy to catch.
To me he's simply known as Daddy; the man who chose to raise me when my own mother couldn't, the man who has probably been the only constant presence in my life.
He also happens to be the man I'm in love with.
Uh-oh, the plot thickens. Didn't see that one comin', did ya? Oh, you did?
Well . . . yeah. What started as your average father-daughter love started to become intense physical and emotional attraction as I got older. This is something I've never felt towards any other male before, not even my first boyfriend. In a way I sort of dated Ian due to being in denial. I was trying to brush all of it off, because what I was feeling wasn't normal. Wasn't right. It almost worked, too, until Ian decided to break up with me due to the fact that I was "boring". Yeah, he actually said that. But I wasn't too heartbroken from that breakup since, to be quite honest, the feeling was mutual. My relationship with him did nothing to extinguish all those feelings I had for my father. In fact, they just became stronger and stronger, as if they were telling me that any method I tried to stop them would be to no avail. They weren't going anywhere. So along the way I eventually gave up and became convinced that I was losing my mind.
My father for the most part seemed oblivious to all of it. He still had occasional one night stands with random women late at night when he thought I was too deep asleep to hear any of it. Well of course, he thought wrong. I heard their moans, their screams of pleasure, and I touched myself imagining that it was my voice instead of theirs. That it was me there in his bed with him. Most of the time there were tears streaming down my cheeks as I pleasured myself, because I knew that all I could ever do was imagine. That my stupid dreams would never become reality.
But now . . . things have changed. He no longer brings home women, and sometimes he stares at me longer than usual. Either this is all wishful thinking on my part, or . . . No. I can't get my hopes up. I shouldn't. And yet, these thoughts never go away. His new behavior started right when I developed curves. I'd always been a gangly little blond girl, but around the time I was sixteen I started to fill out more. My B-cup breasts became D's, and my once flat-as-a-board butt also became fuller. At one point I even decided to dye my pale blond locks pastel pink, and they now fall down to my lower back in thick, slightly messy waves. The only thing that has yet to change about my appearance is I'm still as petite as I've always been at only five-foot-one.
Since my drastic makeover, I've had this inkling that my father might be . . . attracted to me too, from the subtle glances I've caught him giving me when he thought I wasn't looking, and the fact that I've barely seen him with any women anymore, which is very unlike him. Even though he's forty-six now, he's still a gorgeous man. Six-foot-five, almost three hundred pounds of muscle, a number of tattoos on his arms and chest. His face is almost perfectly sculpted, with a strong jaw covered with stubble and high cheekbones. The hints of imperfection on it are result of his wrestling career, like his slightly crooked nose. His eyes are a deep, mesmerizing shade of blue, unlike my grayish ones, and his dark brown hair is styled in a way that makes him appear a bit younger than he is; short, spiky and adorably messy. His looks had always made countless girls swoon, and he was well aware of that. Until now he was quite the playboy, and had a public reputation as a heartbreaker.
But to me, he's never been anything but sweet. He always brings such a comforting warmth whenever he's near me, and I have not even an iota of doubt that he truly cares for me. Yet I know deep down that he'd never see me as more than a daughter, and all these fantasies I have of how he might reciprocate my feelings for him are just that--fantasies. Wishful thinking. Reality will always come pounding it to the ground.
I sigh as I lie in bed staring at the ceiling, having been lost in thought for what feels like hours now and I'm still wide awake. I decide to step out of bed and head to the kitchen to grab a glass of water. I'm wearing my usual nightwear that consists of a long t-shirt that reaches my mid-thigh and only panties underneath. As I'm nearing the kitchen I hear distant grunts and clanking coming from the direction of my father's little mini-gym area. I turn my attention towards the clock on the wall. 2:46 a.m. He's working out at this hour? That's strange. Unable to resist, I decide to ditch the kitchen and follow the sounds.
When I approach the mini-gym, his back is to me, and I nearly fall over. He's shirtless and barefoot, with a pair of track pants on. His body is glistening in the light and I can see the hard muscles of his back and arms flexing with each of his movements. I've seen him shirtless many times but it never ceases to steal my breath and weaken my knees. He must have sensed my presence, because he turns his head slightly and lowers his dumbbells. "Ammy?" he says as he turns towards me, his powerful chest heaving. "What are you doing still up, honey?"
"Couldn't sleep," I replied with a chuckle, trying to focus on his eyes when my eyes are fighting to travel down his chiseled body. "What are YOU doing working out at nearly 3 a.m.?"
"Couldn't sleep," he echoes with a grin as he stretches and walks towards me. "Figured a good work out would get me tired, but it only just pumped me up even more."
Once again I feel as if his eyes slid down my body just the slightest bit. Dammit, I gotta stop this. "Isn't that what usually happens with you after a workout?" I ask.
"Yeah, but I was hoping this time it would be an exception. Haven't had a good night's sleep in a while." That flicker of sadness shows in his eyes again, and my heart cracks a little.
"Y'know, if there's anything you wanna talk about, I'm here, Daddy," I say to him, genuinely concerned. But I already know how he's going to answer.
"I'm fine," he insists, his smile seeming a bit more forced now. "Don't worry about your old man, he can take care of himself." He bangs on his chest and I giggle. "You really should get to bed though, babygirl, it's really late."
"Well I would if I could," I say with a shrug. "But I'm completely wide awake."
"Don't make me drag you to your room and lock you in, young lady," he says in a mock commanding tone.
"Can't do that if you can't catch me." With a giggle I run off, purposefully not using full speed since I want him to catch me, even though I'm quite sure that if I
did
run at full speed he would still catch me anyway.
"Oh no ya don't!" his voice booms out from behind me, and next thing I know my feet are completely swept off the ground, and I squeal and instinctively wrap my arms around his neck as he keeps running while cradling me in his strong arms.
"Ahh daddy slow down!" I'm giggling hard and burying my face into his neck. Even after a long workout he still smells so good. He always does.
He starts spinning around a bit. "Mayday, mayday! We're goin' down!" He plops down onto the living room couch, still holding me to his chest, and I'm still giggling, happier than I've been in a long time.
Soon I pull my face away from his neck and look up at him. We're both grinning and looking into each other's eyes. Slowly I become fully aware that my father is shirtless and holding me--holy crap. I'm slightly paralyzed because of this. The back of his hand caresses my cheek. "Can't believe you're nineteen already, babygirl," he says in his low voice. I feel a rumbling in his chest as he speaks. "You're becoming a woman right before my eyes."
"I'm still your little girl, though, Daddy.." I whisper, hoping he doesn't notice how my cheeks are burning and my heart is frantically trying to burst out of my chest. "I always will be."
His smile would make any woman turn into a puddle. "My beautiful little girl..."
