Chelsea Oliver

Sometimes I like role play

I’ll be your slutty student,
your damsel in distress,
the cheerleader to your football star,
even a dominatrix.
But don’t you dare,
make me call you
Daddy.

He’s the reason I crave sex.
The reason I despise it.
The reason I hate the word,
Daddy.

After he came into my room,
I had no chance.
He sat down beside me,
pretending to watch me sleep.
In case mom walked by.
But he slipped a finger in me
and covered my mouth
with my teddy bear.

My eyes shot open.
I knew this was wrong
but at thirteen
the hormones had kicked in
and I did as he said.

Moan.
Arch your back.
Bite your lip.
I did it all.
I pretended he was my history teacher.
He has hot and young.
He was not my daddy.

Shut the door.
Remove your clothes.
Lay back down.
Don’t tell your mother.
He always kept a finger inside me.
I moaned – like he asked.

As he rubbed my stomach,
squeezed my growing breasts
and finally kneeled over my naked body
he looked me square in the eye.
Then told me he knew what I did with the neighbor boy
and demanded I show him what I had to offer.

He threw my legs back.
My toes hit the headboard,
revealing all of my young, bare pussy
and he shoved all of himself inside of me.

The cock that created me,
was now in me.
The hands that once held me,
pushed my thighs against the mattress.
I couldn’t hide that I was wet,
pretending he was someone else
and gasping for breath between pounds.

I shut my eyes tightly.
He forced me to open them.
To stare at him
as he pumped himself in and out and
he watched as his speed made my boobs bounce
faster and faster.
He told me to moan for him as he went deeper.
Mmhmm, Daddy.
Oh yeah, Daddy.
Harder, Daddy, harder.
Daddy.
Daddy.
Daddy.

Stop!

Please treat me like the sexy nurse to your patient.
The dumb secretary to your boss.
Even the victim to your rapist.
Just never,
ever,
make me call you,
Daddy.

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