Maggie sits alone in her bedroom, tracing her father's face in a beach photo. The cool glass can't match the imagined warmth of his skin. Three summers ago, they looked like any normal family at Clearwater Beach—innocent smiles, casual embraces. Now she notices the way his shirts strain across his chest, how his eyes crinkle when he laughs.

Her room is a shrine to him: framed snapshots of fishing trips, graduation, snowmen—Grace is nearly always absent or tucked away. A secret shot of Vincent emerging from the shower lies in her drawer, fueling late-night fantasies.

From downstairs comes Vincent's deep laughter, vibrating through the floor. Her body responds instinctively as she recalls the touch she longs for: his lips on hers, his hands trailing up her back. Then she hears Grace's sharp voice, berating him over chores. Maggie's nails dig into her palms. How dare her mother treat him like this?

"He deserves someone who appreciates him," she whispers, caressing the photo. Every peaceful moment with Vincent is now laced with forbidden desire.

She stands, smooths her shirt over the curves she inherited from Grace, and heads downstairs, drawn by his presence. Not as a daughter, she tells herself, but as a woman.

Maggie pauses in the doorway, watching Vincent at the counter. His rolled-up sleeves reveal strong forearms flexing as he chops vegetables. A sheen of sweat warms his tanned skin. She presses her thighs together, fighting the rush of desire.

"Grace, should we add mushrooms?" Vincent asks, glancing at her mother, who's absorbed in her phone.

"Whatever," Grace replies without looking up.

Vincent's smile falters, but he keeps chopping, the knife striking the board more forcefully.

Maggie's knuckles whiten on the doorframe. How can her mother be so cold? Vincent deserves warmth and gratitude—things Grace refuses to give.

Grace warns, "The chicken will be dry if you overcook it."

"I know how to cook chicken," Vincent says through gritted teeth.

Catching sight of Maggie, he straightens and beams. "Hey, sweetheart. Dinner's twenty minutes out."

His tone—from him, only for her—makes Maggie's heart flutter. She steps in, deliberately brushing his side as she passes.

"Need any help, Dad?"

"Sure—start the rice."

She stretches for the container on the top shelf, lifting her shirt slightly. Vincent's gaze follows her every move.

"How was your day?" she asks as she measures rice.

"Busy. The Johnson project's behind," he sighs.

"You mean the colonial renovation?" Maggie's hand rests on his forearm. "I remember everything you tell me."

He smiles, and Maggie feels a spark. Curling to reach the soy sauce, she catches his eyes dart away—another small victory.

"I'll make your special sauce," she offers, bumping her hip against him.

"You don't have to," he says, pleased despite himself.

Grace, finally looking up, snaps, "Don't get in your father's way."

"We work well together, don't we, Dad?" Maggie replies, closer than a daughter might. He ruffles her hair, the gesture warm and affectionate.

Grace stands to change for dinner. Her departure eases the tension in Vincent's shoulders.

"Now it's just us," Maggie murmurs, leaning in until their arms touch. "Tell me more about your day. I want to hear everything."

-----

Maggie sinks into the living room couch, the house hushed except for Grace's detective show behind the closed bedroom door and the steady click of Vincent's keyboard down the hall. Warm from dinner and the grazing touches she'd stolen all evening, she closes her eyes and lets her body remember him.

A single lamp casts golden shadows across the room, illuminating only Maggie—and the heat pooling inside her. Grace's TV swells with gunshots, then fades back into background noise, giving Maggie the freedom to dream. Vincent's typing sounds so deliberate, so precise—just like the hands she aches to feel on her skin.

Her fingertips drift over her collarbone beneath the thin fabric of her shirt, tracing the path she longs for his touch to follow. "Dad," she whispers, testing the word until it shed its innocence. She slides one hand under her shorts and the other up to cup her breast, imagining Vincent's warm fingers instead of her own.

She remembers his "thank you" touch—bringing him coffee, a congratulatory hug after regionals—then rewrites each moment into something charged and forbidden. His hands on her back at the beach, smoothing sunscreen across her shoulders, had ignited this craving three years ago.

A pause in the typing makes her heart skip, but the clicks resume, and she lets herself go. Waves of pleasure build behind her closed eyelids as she pictures Vincent finding her here on the couch, desire and restraint warring in his eyes.

When she finally shudders into silence, the house grows still. Vincent's keys are quiet now; Grace's TV has fallen silent. Maggie sits up, brushed her hair back, and feels the resolve harden inside her. No more hidden fantasies. It's time for Vincent to see her as she truly is—and to answer her.

"Soon, Daddy," Maggie whispers, her heart pounding as she steps down the hallway toward her room.

-----

Maggie sits at her vanity, brushing her blonde hair in the afternoon light. Three days until Vincent's birthday, and everything must be perfect—especially a gift her mother would never think of.

She dabs on light makeup, whispering, "He likes natural beauty," then fingers last year's silver necklace, recalling his touch.

In her closet, she holds a new dark-blue dress—shorter, lower cut than she'd ever wear at home—but this isn't an ordinary day. "Perfect," she murmurs, hanging it back.

Her walls are plastered not with family snapshots but with endless images of Vincent alone: grilling, washing his car, reading. She lingers over a beach photo—shirtless, laughing—so different from the tense smiles he gives Grace. She traces his face. "You deserve to be happy, Daddy. I can make you happy."

At her bed, she unlocks a leather-bound journal she started at fourteen. Flipping pages, she finds the entry that changed everything—dated July 17th, two summers ago. "That was the day," she whispers, fingertip resting on the words.

I saw Daddy in a different way today. Mom was being a complete bitch about the lawn not being mowed, even though he'd worked sixty hours this week. He just took it, standing there in the kitchen with his jaw clenched. Later, I found him in the garage, hitting his punching bag so hard I thought it might break. He was shirtless and sweaty, and something inside me just... changed. I've never seen anyone look so powerful and vulnerable at the same time. Why does Mom treat him like that? If I were his wife, I'd never make him feel worthless.

Maggie turns the page, her heart beating faster as the entries become increasingly explicit. Some are fantasies; others are detailed accounts of moments she's manufactured—brushing against him in the hallway, finding excuses to hug him longer than necessary, "accidentally" leaving her bedroom door ajar while changing.

She stops at an entry from just last month, her cheeks flushing as she reads her own words:

I dreamed about Daddy again last night. In the dream, he came into my room after fighting with Mom. He looked so broken until I pulled him into my bed. I showed him what real love feels like. I can still feel his hands on my breasts, the weight of him on top of me. When he pushed inside me, he whispered that no one had ever made him feel so good. I woke up wet and aching, wishing it wasn't just a dream.

Maggie's hand slides down her stomach as she continues reading, her breathing growing heavier. The journal entries become more graphic with each page, detailing exactly what she wants her father to do to her, and what she wants to do to him.

I want to feel Daddy's cock in my mouth, and see his face as he realizes I'm not his little girl anymore. I'd let him cum anywhere—mouth, tits, inside me. I'd take it all.

Maggie shuts the journal, her hand trembling. Not now; she needs to focus.

She watches her mother, Grace, loading shopping bags into her SUV. Grace's outfit is expensive but conservative, hiding her aged body. Maggie scoffs.

"Look at you," she mutters. "No wonder he's so miserable."

Grace has been cold lately, arguing with Vincent about his long hours. Last night, Grace rejected Vincent again. Maggie's blood boils, recalling it. She watches Grace primp and drive off.

"Go spend his money. That's all you're good for," Maggie smirks.

With Grace gone, Maggie and Vincent have the house to themselves. He's working downstairs. Maggie's been tracking Grace's schedule, knowing she shops before special occasions. Today is no exception.

Maggie opens a vanity drawer, revealing a perfume similar to one Grace wore when she and Vincent dated. She dabs it on, inhaling the mature scent.

Her plan includes the perfume, a dress, a special dinner, Vincent's favorite whiskey, and herself—the gift Grace withholds. She opens another drawer, revealing lacy white lingerie.

"You'll love your gift, Daddy," she whispers, putting it back.

Maggie looks at a photo on her nightstand—the only one where Grace isn't cut out. Taken last Christmas, Vincent stands between his wife and daughter, his arm around Maggie, his smile forced. Grace looks distant, her hand on Vincent's shoulder possessively.

Maggie picks up the frame, her eyes narrowing. "You don't deserve him," she mutters.

She remembers finding Vincent asleep on the couch last week, a blanket thrown over him. She watched him, wanting to comfort him, but instead adjusted his blanket and lightly brushed his cheek. That night, she finalized her plan for his birthday gift.

Hearing Vincent's footsteps, Maggie grabs a textbook, pretending to study. Vincent pauses at her door. "Maggie? Have you seen my phone charger?"

"Mom borrowed it," Maggie lies, hiding her sabotage.

Vincent runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. Maggie offers her charger, bending over slightly. She catches him looking at her and is thrilled at the possibility.

"Thanks, sweetheart," he says, their fingers lingering.

"You'll never have to find out what you'd do without me," Maggie says, meaning more than he knows.

Vincent smiles, oblivious. "You should be out with friends," he says.

"I'd rather be home with you," Maggie replies, hinting at her plans for his birthday.

Vincent, unaware, tousles her hair. Maggie leans into his touch.

"This birthday will be special, Daddy," she murmurs.

As Vincent leaves, Maggie smiles, imagining their future.

"Three more days," she whispers, her hand resting between her thighs. "And you'll be mine."

-----

The big day has finally arrived and it's a whirlwind of activity, with family and friends gathering to celebrate Vincent's birthday. The house is filled with laughter, the clinking of glasses, and the hum of conversation. It lasts for hours and Maggie could see by the look on her father's face he's enjoying every second of it.

However, as the guests start to depart, the mood changes. The wrapping paper is tidied up, the dishes are cleaned, and the television filled the room with its usual glow.

At that moment, Grace's usual indifference sets in as she settled in front of her favorite game show. The flickering blue light from the screen cast shadows around her, turning her into a silent, engrossed figure.

Maggie lurks outside the den, feeling a wicked thrill. She knows that in a few moments, her father will be defenseless to the things she's been plotting. Seducing him with her mother just one room away is a cruel delight she has been dreaming of.

She peeks into the den, where Vincent sits in the soft glow of a small lamp. He looks almost bored, surrounded by the dimness and the lingering smell of his cologne. Her heart beats wild and fast as she imagines what's about to happen. Maggie moves with intention; the sound of the game is loud in her ears as she enters. Her father looks at her with something between surprise and curiosity. She steps right in front of him, blocking his view of anything else.

"Happy birthday, Daddy," she whispers. "This is just for you."

Vincent's confusion is apparent, but Maggie savors it. She's about to give him an unexpected gift: adrenaline racing. With Grace so close and clueless, it's thrilling.

Maggie feels a rush, dizzy with excitement. She has Vincent right where she wants him. He's confused, searching her face for answers. Maggie holds back laughter, knowing he has no idea what's coming. His bewilderment turns to shock as he starts to understand. Maggie wonders what he thinks now—does he see her as daring, wicked? The game show's noise continues, a surreal contrast. Maggie glances back at Grace, unmoved. Too easy, she thinks.

Maggie is close now, heart racing with anticipation. Vincent and Grace are unaware of what's about to happen. She feels alive, and reckless. The reality is better than she imagined. Breathless, she's ready for what's next.

Vincent stares at Maggie, confusion in his eyes as she strips in front of him. He's trapped, his face a mix of surprise and disbelief.

"Honey, what are you doing?" he whispers, glancing nervously at the doorway, fearing Grace might enter.

Maggie, unfazed, undresses slowly and provocatively. She stands naked, confident, contrasting Vincent's fully clothed figure.

"Maggie, you need to stop," Vincent pleads weakly, his eyes betraying his words.

Maggie steps closer, feeling his resolve crumble. The game show sounds filter through, absurdly cheerful against the tense atmosphere. Maggie glances back to ensure her mother's ignorance, then meets Vincent's eyes with a daring smile.

Vincent never expected such boldness from Maggie. Shock roots him as she undresses deliberately, like a performance just for him. His heart races with panic and desire. He tries to focus on the wrongness, but Maggie's gaze holds him, unyielding. She knows he's cornered and loves it.

His eyes dart to the doorway again, fearing Grace's entrance. Maggie, calm and confident, makes him feel wrong.

"Maggie, why aren't you listening?" he asks, louder but still a hoarse whisper. He can't look away.

Maggie undresses fearlessly, reveling in Vincent's confusion and desire. She slips out of her clothes, victorious. Vincent's reaction fuels her excitement. Now completely bare, she stands audacious and thrilled by the contrast—Vincent fully clothed, she stripped of everything but determination.

"Maggie, please. It's not right," Vincent insists, but his voice is weak.

Vincent's eyes roam despite his protests. Maggie feels victorious and steps closer, watching his breath catch. The risk and forbidden nature thrill her. She knows she's pushed him to the edge.

The game show sounds highlight the charged scene, making the risk sweeter. Maggie glances back, heart pounding, confirming Grace's oblivion. She turns to Vincent, feeling the electricity between them.

Vincent's mind races, torn between what's wrong and what his body wants. Maggie's determination pulls him in. He sees her confidence, and it consumes him. Maggie moves closer, invading his space, and leaving him nowhere to hide. She sees his tension and knows she's winning.

The power dynamic shifts. Vincent, once authoritative, is now seduced. Maggie loves the inversion, controlling the situation with her presence. She sees the moment his resistance crumbles, like a dam breaking. His composure slips as she stands fearless and bare.

Vincent's breathing quickens, struggling between giving in and holding on. Maggie savors the triumph, knowing she's done the unthinkable. Grace remains unaware, but the game show provides a bizarre soundtrack. Maggie smiles victoriously, watching the tension coil tighter. It's exhilarating and perfect. Vincent doesn't stand a chance.

Vincent shifts uneasily, feeling the heat of her bare skin press against him in the dimly lit den. Her tongue dances with his as she kisses him hard on the lips, her naked body straddling him, her fingers roaming his chest. His eyes widen with shock, a darting glance at Grace watching TV in the adjacent room.

"Please, honey," he begs in a hushed voice, trying not to shiver at her touch. "It's not right. I'm your father."

But Maggie's lips curl into a teasing smile, her hips grinding provocatively against him. "Mmm, Daddy," she whispers, ignoring his protests. Her hands slide over his trembling arms, wrapping around his neck, and pulling him closer. Her eyes are fiery, daring him to resist her as she presses her breasts against his chest. Vincent's face flushes, an uncertain hunger flickering behind his shock.

His voice comes out shaky and uncertain. "Someone will see," he insists, but his hands hover helplessly at her waist, unwilling to push her away.

She kisses him again, her mouth hot and insistent, tasting his hesitation. Vincent's body responds despite himself, his breaths quickening as her hands slide down his chest. He feels himself getting dizzy, senses blurring with every desperate kiss.

Vincent's eyes keep darting to the doorway, the sight of Grace sitting oblivious making him flinch with each brush of Maggie's fingers. Her touch is electric, a jolt of thrill and fear shooting through him. His head turns slightly, catching the flicker of the TV, then her smile when she feels his pulse racing beneath her fingers.

"I see you like this," Maggie teases, her voice a sultry whisper, her hand pressing firmly against his racing heart. She watches him with those daring eyes, seeing right through his feeble resistance. Her fingers travel downward, dancing over his abdomen, inching closer to the forbidden pleasure she knows he's aching for.

Vincent's voice is a strangled mix of longing and shame. "Ma-Ma-Ma, Maggie, please," he tries again, but his resolve crumbles with every stroke. Her hand trails to his crotch, feeling the growing hardness despite his objections. Vincent groans, a sound of surrender and despair, as he leans back onto the couch, the conflict playing vividly across his face.

Maggie's touch is slow and deliberate, each movement fanning the flames of his conflicted desire. His eyes closed for a brief moment, overwhelmed by her insistent body and relentless lips.

"Let me, Daddy," she breathes into his ear, her tongue flicking against his lobe, sending a shiver through him.

She moves her fingers with intimate confidence, making him gasp as he feels himself betray every paternal instinct. Her touch is soft and sure, and his moral turmoil shows in the way his hands twitch, wanting to stop her but unable to muster the strength.

"I want you to," she says, kissing the words into his mouth.

Her boldness leaves him reeling, his protests dwindling into whispered groans.

"What if she sees?" Vincent breathes, but there's no conviction left in his voice. The harder he tries to resist, the more his body insists on submission.

Maggie glances over her shoulder, confirming Grace's attention is...