﻿Addictive

by Pan



Published: 2018-01-27
Updated: 2018-08-18
Packaged: 2024-02-16 21:57:26
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,261
Publisher: mcstories.com
Story URL: https://mcstories.com/Addictive/index.html
Author URL: https://mcstories.com/Authors/Pan.html
Summary: When a man’s daughter almost catches him jerking off, it changes their lives in a way they never expected.
Erotica Tags: in, mc, md, mf





TABLE OF CONTENTS


Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4



	Chapter 1

“I’m in here!” I bellowed through the door. My damned daughter—ever since she turned eighteen, she feels like she owns the house. A man can’t even jerk off in his own bathroom in peace any more.

“Da-ad!” she whined through the door, and I rolled my eyes.

“Almost done!”

And I was. An image of my daughter’s friend Scottie ( _female_ friend, despite the name) popped into my head, and that was all it took to send me over the edge.

That might sound sick, but you’ve got to understand—I’d never actually _do_ anything about it, and I never acted any differently around her. But while I was alone (well, as alone as you can get when you share a house with two women) she was the perfect fodder for dirty thoughts.

My daughter’s best friend was a real hottie. Long red hair, plump lips that looked like they were _built_ for sucking cock, and the biggest set of…

“ _Dad!_ ”

“Coming!” I replied, chuckling under my breath at my own pun. Don’t worry, there was no way that Fiona would know what I was up to in the bathroom. Hell, if it wasn’t for the fact that she knew where babies came from, Fiona would probably think that her old man had _never_ had sex.

_Although,_ I thought with a sigh, _that’s not far off._

You’ve probably worked this out from the fact that I was jerking off in my own bathroom, but my love-life has…well, it’s been better. Fiona’s mother (Julie) and I…

I want to say “we lost the spark”, but that sounds it make like there was a grand romance that faded. In a sense, we got together out of a sense of practicality. She wanted a family, I wanted a son…

At least Julie got what she wanted.

Don’t get me wrong, I love my daughter to bits (when she’s not being an entitled, stuck-up princess) but I always wanted a _son_.

I guess it just wasn’t to be. Shortly after the birth of my daughter, I was one of those people who had an allergic reaction to the new New Coke—you might have heard about it, it was a big story at the time.

There weren’t many of us that reacted badly to it, but I was one of them.

The effect? Infertility.

I mean, there were some other weird side-effects (I sometimes still lose hair in the winter) but that was the one that really stung.

And so I never got the son I always wanted. Don’t get me wrong—my daughter is the best thing that ever happened to me.

Just…would have been nice to have had a son, too.

We got a huge payout, but that’s obviously not the same. I’m an only child, and so once I was gone, our last name would be gone…possibly forever. It was something I thought about every now and again—I guess I felt like I was losing my legacy, like…—

“ _Dad!_ ”

“All done,” I yelled back, cleaning up the last of my seed. I’m a sprayer, but over the years I’ve gotten pretty good at making sure I don’t leave any evidence.

As I flushed the sodden tissue down the toilet, I opened the door and threw my daughter a huge grin. “Your throne, my princess.”

Fiona didn’t laugh at my hilarious joke. Instead, she started to roll her eyes, but then stopped halfway through.

“…what is that smell?”

I hoped that she wouldn’t notice the look of shock that must have appeared on my face—I had totally forgotten to wash my hands, and now that she mentioned it, the smell of my cum _was_ still detectable.

It wasn’t obvious, but it was there.

“What smell?” I replied as innocently as I could.

“That…”

Her eyes narrowed.

“What _is_ that?”

Shit. Now I was going to be forced into the world’s most awkward daddy-daughter conversation. I could see it now—“Daddy has needs, honey, and since she realized she wasn’t getting any more babies out of me, your bitch of a mother cut him off…”

…okay, that’s not really fair. Julie’s not a bitch, and I knew what this marriage was going in. And it’s not like we hate each other or anything like that—it’s just like sharing a house with a friend.

Not a close friend. But we’ve spent twenty years building a life together, and that’s not nothing.

“It smells _incredible_ ,” Fiona said with a sigh, completely breaking me out of my reverie.

“What?”

“It’s _amazing_ ,” my daughter said, poking around the bathroom, trying to find the source of the scent. “What is it, a new air freshener?”

I froze, confused. Maybe it wasn’t her father’s cum that Fiona could smell—maybe Julie had bought a new deodorizer for the bathroom and I just hadn’t noticed.

But then Fiona’s inquiring nose found a glob of cum that I had somehow missed.

“Mmm, this is it!” she said, and before I could stop her, my teenage daughter had scooped up my semen and put it into her mouth.


	Chapter 2

“Honey!” I said, alarmed, but a look of total bliss spread across Fiona’s face.

“Oh my god,” she sighed happily. “This. Is. _The Best._ ”

I took a step backwards. Fatherhood constantly presents you with new challenges, but “your teenage daughter loving the taste of your cum” certainly wasn’t one that I’d been expecting.

“Uh…”

I was flummoxed, and so I just stood there, mouth gaping, as Fiona began looking for more of the mysterious gel she’d scooped into her mouth.

“What is it, a new toothpaste? God, Dad, it’s so good. You’ve got to try it.”

_I already have,_ I thought to myself.

I mean, not as a habit or anything like that, but what man hasn’t tasted his own offering?

No offense to women (or I guess gay men) but I’ve never seen the appeal.

And I can tell you, based on the two blowjobs I got from Julie before we got married and the one I got on our honeymoon (the last blowjob I received, I’m sad to report)—the taste of my cum was definitely _not_ something that would typically incur this kind of reaction.

Julie swallowed the first time, but she was obviously pretty reluctant to do so, and so the next two times I came in her mouth, she spat it into a tissue, wrinkling her cute little nose up as I did.

So what the hell why Fiona acting like she’d just found the elixir of life?

As I started pretending to help my daughter find more of the “incredible stuff”, I wondered if it really was a spilled bath gel or gum ointment or something like that. I mean, some of them taste pretty nice—again, not amazing enough to rave about (as my daughter continued to do as we searched) but surely that made more sense than her response being to my semen.

Right?

After she’d smelled or tasted everything in the medicine cabinet (against my advice, I should add), my daughter seemed to turn into some kind of bloodhound. She stood perfectly still, her nostrils flaring slightly.

“I can still smell it…” she said, and—no word a lie—it took less than a minute for her nose to lead her to my hands.

I watched, shocked, as my daughter’s small pink tongue poked out and dabbed against the palm of my hand.

“This is it!” she exclaimed, and before I could even jerk my hand away, her tongue flattened out and began licking my hand.

The sensation of my daughter’s tongue against my rough skin was a strange one (which, as I’m sure you can imagine, I’d never expected to experience) and I had to say her name three times before she snapped out of it, withdrew her tongue, and gave me my hand back.

“Oh wow,” she said, looking up at me in surprise. “Sorry Daddy.”

“That’s okay, hon,” I said cautiously. “But how about you do what you came in here to do, hey?”

“Yeah,” she agreed. “I totally forgot—I’m busting.”

I began to leave the small bathroom, but before I could get out the door, I felt her hand on my arm.

“Daddy,” she said as I turned to face my apparently-insane daughter. “What _is_ that stuff?”

“It’s hand-cream,” I lied, not entirely sure how to respond.

“Oh,” she said, and before she could ask any follow-up questions, I left the bathroom and shut the door.

What the _fuck_ had just happened?

* * *

At 3am, I finally resigned myself to the fact that I wasn’t getting any sleep that night. Making sure not to wake my sleeping wife (despite almost 19 years without sex, we still share a bed—thus the bathroom masturbation session) I went downstairs and poured myself a glass of milk.

“Okay,” I said out loud. “There’s a few different options.”

“Mmm?” my daughter replied, and I almost jumped out of my skin. I’d managed to avoid her for the rest of the night, locking myself in my den until I heard her go upstairs to her room, but I had somehow failed to notice her sitting at the kitchen table when I came down.

If she weren’t my daughter, I’d be forced to admit that Fiona is an extremely attractive young woman. Long brown hair, dark skin (her mother is darker than I am, and Fiona’s inherited her complexion) and blue eyes, which is apparently a recessive gene from my mother’s father, or however that works.

As she _is_ my daughter, of course, I’ve tried very hard to never notice her long, slender legs, or her surprisingly large breasts (something that she certainly didn’t inherit from her mother).

No, as far as I’m concerned, she’s just my baby girl.

When she’s sitting at the table wearing nothing but a pair of panties and a thin white T-shirt, however, it can be pretty hard to avoid noticing how she’s grown.

“Something from work, honey,” I mumbled, and Fiona raised one eyebrow.

“Really, Daddy?” she asked, standing up and marching towards me.

I was reminded of a tiger stalking its prey. My daughter had that same terrifying, predatory look in her eyes.

“Uh-huh.”

“And this has nothing to do with your…what did you say it was that I found?” she asked innocently, fluttering her eyelids at me.

I was a fool to fall for it.

“Hand-wash,” I said.

In response, her eyes flared and she pointed one finger accusingly at me.

“No,” she growled, “you said hand- _cream_. And I asked mother; she said that in all the time she’s known you, you’ve never bought, owned, or shown _any_ interest in hand-cream. And then when I went through every drawer in the bathroom and the bedroom, you know what I didn’t find?”

“The treasure of the Sierra Madre?” I joked, but my attempt at humor was ignored.

“Hand-cream, Daddy. I found no hand-cream, no hand-wash. _Nothing_ that explains what that mystery goo was.”

She paused, and I gulped.

“But mark my words, Daddy, I’m going to find what it was. I already have some…”

Her eyes flicked down to my pants, and for the first time since I’d found her lurking in the kitchen, she looked briefly hesitant.

“…I already have some theories.”

“I’m sure you do, sweetie,” I said, trying my hardest to smile. I suspect the result was akin to someone trying to fit a whole packet of mints in their mouth at once—I’ve always been told I have a particularly toothy smile—and Fiona shot me a withering glance before heading off to bed.

Jesus Christ. When had my daughter become so…determined?

And what the _hell_ was I going to do?


	Chapter 3

That night, I barely slept a wink. After downing a glass of milk, I decided to try to work out what was happening.

But no matter how hard I googled, no matter how much I thought about it, I could not come up with an explanation that made sense.

Eventually, I got it down to three theories.

Either:

a) My daughter, for some reason, had gone mad. This wasn’t completely outside the realm of possibilities—her behavior certainly didn’t seem like that of a sane woman.

b) My daughter was playing some kind of elaborate prank. Believe it or not, this was actually _less_ likely than the previous option—I love Fiona, but she’s never had much of a sense of humor.

At least, she never laughs at _my_ jokes.

c) My semen had somehow done something to my daughter.

…

The first seemed unlikely—I’m no shrink, but a sudden onset madness that manifested exclusively as an over-the-top positive reaction to finding semen?

Yeah.

The second was possible, but…well, my Fiona has never really been the pranking type.

And that just left the third option.

I sat in the den until the room began to grow light. It seemed impossible…but the whole situation seemed impossible.

As the birds began chirping, I realized what I had to do. I had to know—if my daughter was playing a prank, no harm done, but if she was actually crazy…that was something I wanted to know about sooner rather than later.

And the only way to know if it was true was to do some experiments.

Crawling into bed beside my wife a few minutes later, I wondered if I was doing the right thing. If my semen did have some kind of mind-altering quality, maybe the right thing to do was to go and see a doctor, or the government. Of course, they might lock me up, or who knows? It might turn out to be the cure to aids.

But until I’d ruled out the possibility that my daughter was playing some kind of uncharacteristic prank, I didn’t really want to go through the humiliating experience of explaining to a doctor what I suspected.

And so I slowly closed my eyes, hoping that my wife would notice the small dish I’d left beside the sink of our ensuite.

* * *

I was awoken just a few hours later, by my wife’s frantic shaking.

“Mark,” she whispered. I’m not sure why—she was clearly trying to wake me up. “Mark, I need to ask you something.”

“Mmmm?” I said, rolling over and slowly opening my eyes. My wife was wearing the nightie she typically slept in.

My wife is a few years younger than me, and—I’m not going to lie—keeps herself in _much_ better shape than I do. She has legs to challenge our daughter’s, even if her tits are less than half the size.

Back before I had the allergic reaction, when we used to make love frequently (well, “make love” might be putting it a bit strongly—it was pretty perfunctory from her end, and so both of us were basically focused on getting _me_ off) I used to love her tits. She has huge areolae, and big thick nipples. The kind that you can tug on without causing any pain—I could have spent hours sucking on her big titties…but hell, _Fiona_ had sucked on my wife’s tits more recently than I had.

“I found something,” she said, and I remembered the little “trap” of sorts I’d set the previous night.

“Oh yes?” I asked. Apparently Julie was better at reading my poker face than our daughter, because she shot my a glare in response.

“I know you put it there,” I said.

“Mmm?”

“And I need to know…”

There was a brief pause, and a slight look of confusion passed across my wife’s face, like she didn’t quite know why she needed this so much.

“…I need to know if you have any more.”

“I’ll see if I can find any,” I yawned, and rolled over to go back to sleep. My curiosity was sated—apparently my semen’s magical properties affected my wife and daughter equally, and now all I wanted was to get some more damned sleep.

“What is it?” my wife hissed in my ear. “I can get it, just let me know what it is.”

“Wait until I’m awake,” I said, pulling the pillow tighter against my ear.

There was a long pause and I could feel sleep beginning to overtake me again before my wife spoke up.

“I can’t.” she said flatly.

“Sure you can.”

“No,” she said, and her voice had a serious enough tone that I forced myself to roll over and open my eyes.

My wife was staring at me, pleading with her eyes.

“I can’t, Mark. I…I need more.”


	Chapter 4

Fifteen minutes later, I was in the car. I couldn’t tell my wife the truth—I’d mixed my semen with a little bit of flour, so it wasn’t instantly recognizable—and so I’d told her that I’d go to the store and grab some more.

As I drove nowhere in particular, my head was spinning.

I wasn’t going mad, and neither was my daughter. It wasn’t an elaborate prank (or, if it was, Fiona had somehow managed to rope Julie into it as well)—somehow, for reasons I didn’t understand, my semen had some kind of addictive property.

Fiona had tasted just a tiny glob, and that was enough to keep her hassling me for hours and hours after. My wife had been given a much larger serving—mixed with flour, but that didn’t seem to have affected anything—and she’d been desperate enough to guilt me out of bed.

My mind was whirring along with a thousand and one questions.

What would happen if I gave them some more?

What would happen if I didn’t?

And my girls aren’t stupid—what would happen when they eventually worked out the truth?

I could have driven around hours, questions running through my brain, answers nowhere in sight. But after twenty minutes, my phone began to light up with messages from my wife.

“WHERE R U”

“SERIOUSLY WHERE R U”

“CALL ME”

“CALL NOW”

After the fourth text in two minutes, I pulled over and called my wife.

“Hey honey,” I said, trying to sound casual.

My wife’s was panting, as though she’d just run a marathon.

“Where the hell are you??” she asked. I considered lying, but before I could even formulate a response, she made me very glad that I didn’t. “I’m watching you on Find My Friends, and it looks like you’re just driving in circles.”

“Uh, yeah,” I stammered. I am a man of many strengths—including, apparently, addictive semen—but thinking on my feet isn’t necessarily one of them. “I sort of zoned out for a bit. I’m on my way to the store now.”

“Okay,” Julie said, her suspicion obvious in her voice. “Just…”

Her tone softened, and I couldn’t help but smile at the phone.

“Hurry. Please?”

“I will, honey. I’ll be back soon.”

* * *

When I returned home fifteen minutes later, I had two things: a plan, and a small vial of semen.

It’s not necessarily a sensible idea to pull over to the side of the road and jerk off into a newly-purchased chemistry kit, but I was out of options. Nineteen years with my wife has taught me that when she wants something, standing in her way is a bad move.

I’ve never measured my output before (it had truly never felt necessary), but it turns out with one orgasm, I can fill about four little vials. I’d hidden the other three in the car, and brought one in so I could see my wife’s reaction to the gift.

“What _is_ this?” my wife asked, uncorking and downing the vial before I could get a chance to respond. Unlike the dish of the previous night, there was no flour mixed with my semen—it was pure Mark, all the way.

I didn’t answer, just watched as my wife’s eyes rolled back with glee.

“God that’s good,” she said with a sigh. 

“Plenty more where that came from,” I said casually.

When I’d entered the house, Julie’s face had a slightly manic look to it—at the news that the supply wasn’t limited, I saw her entire body relax, and a look of serenity appeared on her face.

“That’s great,” she said, and—to my great surprise—didn’t ask any follow-up questions. Instead, she just sat back in the couch, and smiled at me.

“Want to watch a film?”

“I’d love to,” I said, and we held hands as we watched the latest Netflix original.

* * *

As the end credits rolled, I glanced over to notice that my wife was asleep. I took the opportunity to sneak back into the car to collect the rest of the vials.

Returning to the house, I was surprised to find my daughter sitting on my bed, waiting for me.

“Hello princess,” I said, trying to remain calm.

“Hello Daddy,” she responded, her voice slightly strained. I recognized the look in her eyes—it was an intense, desperate need; I’d seen it in her mother’s eyes earlier that day.

I’m no scientist, but it seemed to me that Fiona’s smaller dose had reduced the effects of my seed, or at least slowed them down.

“Where have you been?” I asked casually. She smiled at me.

“I’ve been thinking,” she said, running one hand down her body. For the first time, I noticed what my baby girl was wearing—a dark blue pleated skirt, and a white crop top. The skirt was shorter than I’d ever seen her in, and it was obvious that she wasn’t wearing a bra beneath the shirt—something that I’d never, ever thought I’d notice about my daughter.

“Mmm?”

“I’ve been thinking,” she continued, standing up and slinking towards me, “that the ‘hand cream’ had a really familiar texture.”

“What hand cream?” I asked, but Fiona wasn’t buying it. She just smiled at me, and placed one hand on my chest.

“You know I’m not a virgin, don’t you?”

My eyebrows shot up.

“No,” I answered, completely honestly. I mean, I was aware that my daughter was attractive, and she’d had boyfriends, and that this generation…but no, I truly hadn’t been aware that Fiona was sexually active.

“Really?” she pouted, and my torso stiffened as her hand began to move down. “You thought your daughter was a good, innocent girl, who had never…”

I coughed, loudly.

Fiona stood on the tips of her toes, and moved her mouth to my ear.

“I’ve sucked a lot of cocks,” she whispered, and I wanted to push her away in disgust. That was _not_ something I wanted to know about my daughter.

“Fiona!”

“I’ve sucked a lot of cocks,” she repeated softly. Her hand paused on my belt buckle. “And I know what semen tastes like, Daddy…”

“Fiona,” I said firmly.

Her hand began to unbuckle my belt.

“Fiona!”

Grabbing her small hands in mine, I moved them away from my pants, and held them above her head. To my horror, this seemed to excite her—she bit her lip, and stared at me with her big, blue eyes.

“I want more,” she gasped. “Please, Daddy…I just want more. I’ll do whatever you want.”

“I want you to go to your room,” I said sternly. “No, don’t interrupt—I want you to go to your room, get a good night’s sleep, and…stop thinking about it. That’s an order!”

To my shock, a fiery look came into her eyes at my last few words. There was a brief pause, and I genuinely wondered if she was going to obey.

“Mark?”

I released my daughter’s arms, and spun around in shock. Julie was sleepily staring at us, a look of confusion on her face.

Even if she hadn’t heard any of the conversation, Fiona’s outfit, me restraining her—there was plenty to be suspicious of.

“Julie,” I said. “I can explain…”

“It’s okay,” she said softly, her face breaking into a smile. “Fiona, isn’t it time for bed?”

“Yes, mother,” our rebellious daughter uncharacteristically replied. “Good night, Daddy.”

“G’night, hon.”

Julie hugged me, and rested her head against my chest.

“Today was a good day,” she said, sounding calm and happy.

“I’m glad,” I said, not quite sure how I’d managed to get out of that one. “You ready for bed?”

“I am,” she answered, smiling up at me. “Before I go to sleep—any more of that stuff? I could really use some.”

“Of course,” I replied. “I’ve got some right here.”

As I opened up another of the vials, Julie’s nostrils flared. Her eyes widened as she gulped it down, a look of satisfaction spreading over her face when she was done.

My route to the kitchen (to wash out the vial) took me past my daughter’s room. As I passed her bedroom door, I couldn’t help but hear a series of very faint moans. I paused, instinctively, and could clearly hear my daughter’s voice through the wall.

“Oh, Daddy. Yes! Oh Daddy, yes. Yes, please. Oh, Daddy…”


End file.
