My Best Friend's Daddy

I’ve known him since I was twelve. Back then he was just “Mr. Kane,” the tall guy who always smelled like cedar and coffee, who ruffled my hair and called me “kiddo” while he grilled burgers at summer barbecues. Now I’m twenty-two. And the way he looks at me when my best friend isn’t watching? That’s not how you look at “kiddo” anymore. His name is still Kane. But the things I call him in my head when I’m alone in my room, fingers between my legs, imagining his voice low against my ear? Daddy. Just Daddy. He’s forty-five. Divorced. Built like he still lifts heavy things for fun. Silver threading through the dark hair at his temples. Hands that look like they could break something or hold it so tight it forgets how to leave. I never meant for it to happen. One late-night text. One “you okay?” that turned into three hours of messages that got darker, dirtier, more honest than anything I’ve ever said out loud. One night I showed up at his house when my best friend, his daughter, was out of town. The door wasn’t even closed before his mouth was on mine and his hand was under my skirt and he growled, “You’ve been teasing me for years, baby girl. Time to pay up.” Now I’m sneaking into his bed when she’s asleep down the hall. I’m on my knees in his office while he’s on a Zoom call, trying not to moan while he feeds me his cock and whispers, “Quiet for Daddy.” I’m cuming so hard I see stars, and then he’s holding me after, stroking my hair, telling me I’m his good girl, his perfect little secret. But secrets like this don’t stay secret forever. And when the truth comes out, it’s going to burn everything down. Me. Him. Her. I just don’t know if I care anymore.