Being a single father’s no harder than being a single mom: Baseball ballet practice, handmade Iron Man Tinkerbell costumes, ATV pony rides on birthdays. Hair ties always on hand, so practiced at braiding I could probably do it blindfolded. At least Alice liked Marvel movies.

When Alice returned from college, she’s happy to discover the fruits of my newfound hobby: a renovated kitchen, the downstairs’ hardwood floors, an attic I’d converted into a personal ‘man-den’ with a TV, mini-fridge, couch and beanbag chairs. She joked that my new physique could audition for the university’s wrestling team, plucked at sawdust grains nestled amongst my auburn curls, and complained that the scent of spruce, walnut, and cedar constantly lingered in my wake. Flattery aside, she asked to host a party.

I’m lenient; I’d rather they drink with supervision than without, plus if she cleaned the pool and her friends provided side dishes, I’d barbeque. As I’m lugging charcoal out of the Civic on the day of, you arrive: Fishnets. Ripped jean shorts. Converses. A too edgy t-shirt that exposed an inked half sleeve. Overly styled yet simultaneously ragged obsidian currents flowed from your head. The faint scent of marijuana. Surely you-

“Does Alice live here?” My shock’s palpable, pupils wider than your gauges, but you’re polite nevertheless.

“Um, yes.” I’m half praying that you’ll dissipate like windshield fog, but you don’t. You waited, then slapped the brown grocery bag you’re towing: a watermelon. “Oh, thanks.” I cleared my throat, then awkwardly pointed to the house. “She’s in the backyard.”

In comparison, Alice’s other friends are wallpaper. The vapors wafting upward from the sizzling grill prompted me to repeatedly wipe my glasses’ lenses, glancing at you each time I push them back onto the bridge of my nose: the long legs and plump, perky butt, both milk white. Onyx hair fashioned into an elegantly messy bun. There’s a motley of piercings and ink patches that fail to detract from your surprisingly pretty face, standoffish as you are. I’m not your only admirer, but my discretion’s unparalleled, which couldn’t be said for the half inebriated, fully brazen boys approaching you, their words falling on courteous, yet taciturn ears.

When there’s 3 guys pestering you to take Patrón shots with them, I intervened. “You lads mind helping me clean up the trash?” After they reluctantly scurried off, I handed you a Mike’s Hard Lemonade, muttering curtly. “It’s an excuse.”

There’s hesitation, then the closest thing to a smile I’d seen on your face all day. Your voice rang bright, playful, yet appreciative. “Thanks pops.”

Everyone left for brunch in the morning. But you returned, spent another night, then left. To my surprise, you’re back 3 days later. You spend the night. Leave. Return. Spend the night. Leave for 2 days. Return. Spend the night again. Finally, I confronted Alice only to discover the truth: your uniqueness wasn’t exclusive to only appearance and personality, but also your home life. “Please, just 3, 4 times a week, max. She works at Safeway full-time and I don’t want her to go back to- y’know,” she trailed off, Bambi eyes galore. “It’ll be mostly evenings and she’ll be on her best behavior. Promise.”

I relented, tempered my disgruntlement, but it ultimately flared up one day when I noticed you look as though you’d been perpetually, mildly underfed. After casually asking Alice about your favorite meals, I’d occasionally serve them for dinner. Then it’s aimed at your dilapidated work boots, which I wordlessly replaced atop the guest room’s bedside stand. Then it’s how you’re utterly panicked when your Camry won’t start for work, so after dropping you off at 5:30AM, I took the day off and after investigating your vehicle, replaced a faulty alternator. And hell, since I’ve already got the hood open, I might as well change the oil and spark plugs, top off the necessary fluids, then scrub the exterior. Upon picking you up and returning home, I don’t acknowledge my handiwork in the driveway and instead asked you to help me prepare dinner.

And how do you repay me? With day after day of agonizingly short skirts, skintight leggings, even kicking back in boy-shorts and a bare midriff sports top while watching Netflix in the living room. I’d glare daggers at your turned back, even if my eyes softened while trailing down your thighs. At least the gauges were gone and better yet, there’s no scent of weed anymore.

One early morning, I’m lumbering to the downstairs bathroom, checkered pajamas from the waist down only, and pushed the door aside to find you, thong around your ankles, sucking on a (who fucking does that?) fruit popsicle while sitting on the toilet.

We stared at each other. My eyes flickered from your heavily dye bangs to your alabaster calves, then rested a fraction too long on a naked, porcelain, brilliantly beautiful bust that’s normally contained by a black bra. You noticed, boastingly jutted your chest out while sitting up as Natalie Dormer’s iconic smirk sculpts your face, the popsicle exiting your mouth with a pop; your silver ball-stud gleamed amidst taste buds dyed purple grape. “You gonna close that door or not?”

“Yes. Sorry.” My sleepy stupor shattered, I hastily jerked the doorknob backwards, the ensuing slam followed by your muffled giggle. It’s only when I’m back upstairs do I realize that I’d been holding my own breath, my burly chest puffed out throughout that exchange.

Then late afternoon, while Alice was out running errands and you were at work: I’m in the bathroom, my palm wrapped around a lotion greased fuckstick threatening to make a geyser look miniscule in comparison. Adrift in a mental whirlpool of guilt and lust, utterly plagued with thoughts of you in my bed, hair tied up exactly the way it’d been on that first day, your hand reaching up and threatening to unleash a torrent of midnight locks, spreading with a- CREAK.

It’s you in your work uniform. We stared at each other, our positions switched. I’m utterly red while your eyes flickered up, down, up, down. “You, um- gonna close that door?” I stammered ashamedly, politely.

“Sure thing, pops.” You tugged on the doorknob, paused, pointed at your feet, “You want me on this side of the door…”, then at me. “-or that one?”

I don’t miss the flick of your tongue across your upper lip, your chest’s slight heave. And in response, my bitch-breaker, ovary-pillager, absolute boar-tusk of a cock throbbed like a gong struck by a mallet, the vein leading up its underbelly practically flexing like a man’s tricep. Precum dribbled past the pulled back foreskin, slowly oozing down the frenulum like a river. “Um, other side. Please.” I responded in the most neutral tone I could muster, one hand still gripping my womb-conqueror of a monolith.

The subsequent grin could’ve split your face in half. “Okay.” You winked exaggeratedly, tugging on your tank top’s neckline before it snapped back, then closed the door in my face, chortling as your feet pitter-pattered away. I baptized my right hand in the bathroom sink. And though you don’t mention anything during dinner, you’re not deterred from surreptitiously rubbing your foot against my calf in between bites of lasagna.

I hated it, despised it, loathed it. How you played footsies with a man over twice your age. How I didn’t immediately retract my foot. That I, the person best poised to temporarily alleviate your troubles also wanted to bend you into a pretzel, tally up the slaps it’d take to dye your bottom with pink, then paint your pale face paler still. And that worst of all, you’d probably encourage it. Everything from head to balls hurt just contemplating it. Some parent I am, I sulked ruefully, a handmade meatball impaled upon my fork.

While I’m washing the dishes, your barbell studded, 100% braless diamond-hard nipples immediately betrayed all anonymity as 2 hands slithered forward from my sides until they intertwined themselves to lock around my torso. “Alice and I are going out to get something sweet, you want anything Pops? You know what?” Your wink’s practically audible, “I’ll bring you something back anyway.”

And at midnight, while Alice was asleep and I’m watching TV:

This prompt feels rather self-explanatory, but approach me in OOC first to introduce yourself and ask any questions you might have. Disclaimer: you don’t have to play exactly as the girl I’ve described, it simply helped with initiating his attraction towards her. I have no particular appearance or name in mind for ‘Pops’, although I think Arnold is fitting. I’d prefer if you picked up from where the prompt left off, but the continuation itself is open-ended.

Relevant kinks: buttsluts, dub-con, sloppy oral, huge cocks, cock and ball worship, rough sex (spanking, tit slapping, hair pulling), vocal praise, hold-the-moan, excessive cum, light femdom and D/S, seduction, death by snu snu, aftercare, making sure a young girl’s got enough to eat and tucking her into bed

Relevant limits: Mean-spiritedness, beast, watersports, scat, excessive violence, blood, being a bad parental figure outside of bed

My Profile