Daddy's Naught Girl

4: Tristan.

Legs shaking, and teeth grinding hard, I stare at the crumpled pile of white lace on the counter.

No one has to know, Big Daddy. I can be your cute, little secret. Your guilty pleasure.

Fucking fantastic.

Lia has absolutely no idea how long I've been in torment, thinking about it. I've been counting the days until she finally leaves home for college, relief, and fear whirling inside my chest. With her gone, everything would truly be normal for once. I wouldn't have to come home every night, worried I might break underneath the tension she's placed me. Finally drag her perky, sweet arse upstairs to my bedroom, shut the door, and f**k the living daylights out of her until she loses her breath.

With each visit, each day came a new temptation. One that drives me further and further away from logical reasoning, pushing me towards the steep end. The way she prattles into the kitchen each time, in various revealing outfits, her eyes gleaming with mischief, her hands getting more and more brave when they touch me. She's like a candy I can't have. The ultimate, alluring forbidden fruit. Twenty-five years my junior. My son's best friend. The daughter of our neighbor. And to put the f*****g cherry on the cake, I've played the role of a second father to her all these years.

I had always seen her as my daughter. When did that change?

I run a hand through my hair as I try to recall. It's not coming easily to me — all a disturbing blur. Work does that to me. Makes me a bystander to everything going on in my personal life — a disinterested bystander at that. One day I looked up to find out that Lia's t**s had swelled thrice the size of a medium-sized baseball, and she now had a mouth-watering arse that made my c**k raise its head excitedly, bobbing it like a dog. My head spun at the quick changes, which she revels in displaying in my kitchen, to the detriment of my mental health.

She's a f*****g flirt. And a good one at that.

I've always seen it in her. Something in her demeanor, but her new banging body makes that personality a dangerous weapon. She's aware of her potential; of the effect her appeal has on me.

Surely, I can't be the only man she goes this hard for, can I?

I ask myself this over and over again, with no solid answer forthcoming.

The girl is only being nice to me, like any other girl her age would, but in her case, it made me feel desirable. Reminding me that I still have a functioning d**k and decades left to use it and bring forth twice a dozen babies if I wanted. There's no way in hell that beautiful damsel wants a bulky, aging, thick-around-the-middle bastard like me with more salt than pepper in his hair. It's only a game to her. She's done this many times before to other men; teasing, and playing around.

That's what I thought until she propositioned me. Made known the surprising fact that she wants me as much as I want her.

Lia could have any man in the city. She could have her pick of any man in the world. And yet she settles for me.

No one has to know, Big Daddy. I can be your cute, little secret. Think about it.

God take the wheel. It's been over five days since she's said those words to me and I've been finding it hard to concentrate on my work or anything else. They keep echoing in my head, and I can't get rid of my erection, no matter how many times I jerk off. And every single time, I think of her moaning Big Daddy into my ear, her tight p***y making squelching noises while I pump in and out of her. Honestly. I should be staked to a tree and burnt alive for even fantasizing about the girl, but that's as far as I'm allowing myself to get carried away by her.

There will be no calling her.

There would be no long hours spent wondering how we could keep it a secret as best as possible.

I'm a man with morals. Held in high regard by society. Not some middle-aged creep who needs a barely legal girlfriend to feel youthful again. Lia deserves much better. She's got a shimmering future ahead of her. An education. A career.

Other men. Young.

I slam my fist so hard on the table, my phone almost falls face flat down on the floor.

It's quite funny to be jealous. Absurd. Just great. I've let her hypnotize me. Let her flirting get into my head. I've allowed myself to start thinking if she saw me differently from other men. If I was in any way, special to her.

You're disgusting.

Worse than pathetic.

Take a f*****g look at yourself in the mirror.

My reflection on the screen of my computer draws my attention. I exhaled loudly, noting the graying sideburns. Once upon a time, I was the hottest bachelor to ever walk the face of the earth, but I've traded my health for wealth. I'm no more as good-looking as I used to be, ever since Eunice's death. What would I even look like on top of Lia's gorgeous, supple body? It would be awful. Like that grainy homemade porn between a granny and a guy who was of the same age range as her last son.

With an irritable curse, I swipe the thong off my desk and stuff them back into my pocket, giving in to the urge to smell my hand, roughly inhaling the lingering perfume of her p***y before forcefully turning my mind back to the work I was doing. I open my mail, ready to shoot off a reply to an important inquiry, when a subject line — about five emails from the top catches my eye.

WORLD CLASS BEST SERVICE. YOU CAN'T AFFORD TO PASS UP THIS OPPORTUNITY. IT PROMISES A LOT.

My brows knot together in confusion. What in God's name is this? An advertisement? Seems like it. But why did my filtering service pick it up? What could be the reason? I don't recognize the email address, but the name of the sender rings a suspicious bell; Princeton Bastille. That sounds like one of the rich, braggadocios boys from my Saturday Golf Club for sure. And if so, I don't want to outright ignore them, especially if this is something ALL CAPS important.

I tap my finger on the mouse for a moment, contemplating, the clock the email, finding a link in the body, and nothing more. Just a tiny red link.

I leaned closer, squinting so I could read the words that is embedded in the URL.

Hot southern sugar babies.

What the hell is that?

I shake my head, about to close the mail, to write this off as spam, but something makes me tap the link out of curiosity. I'm not a man who can walk away from something mysterious, and I've never heard of hot Southern sugar babies before. If this is some serious, illegal s**t that has been sent to me by mistake, I have to do the right thing and alert the appropriate authorities to handle it. And when the website splashes open across my screen, the header a deep shade of red, that's my first thought.

This is illegal!

Prostitution.

There are hundreds of girls, young enough to be my daughter, if I had one, beaming in photographs in all types of poses. A vast majority are lying in beds, showing peeks of tempting skin beneath their college sweatshirts. A sound of disgust escapes my lips, not from judgment, but because these girls must have reasons to exchange their bodies for money. Reasons like debt, I assume. And I don't like knowing that this is an opportunity for perverts my age to take advantage of them using their bottomless bank accounts. Why in hell would someone send this to me —

My jaw slacks as a particular photo catches my eye.

The first one is on the second row.

No. It can't be.

It's... it's...Lia?