Weeks had passed since Daddy first snapped.

What started as angry, guilt-ridden fucking in the basement studio had slowly turned into something deeper, darker, and far more addictive. He still refused to fuck my pussy, always choosing my throat or my ass instead, reminding me with every thrust that “this cunt still belongs to your mother.”

But I could feel him weakening.

Every night he used me harder. Every session he degraded me more filthily. And every time he filled my ass or throat with his cum, I could see the conflict in his eyes — the hunger slowly overpowering his remaining sense of morality.

Until tonight.

I was lying...