The digital clock glows 2:17 AM as Chris opens his eyes, consciousness creeping in like an unwanted guest. Beside him, Paty sleeps soundly, her breathing deep and rhythmic, utterly unaware of the storm raging inside her husband. He slips from beneath the covers, careful not to disturb her rest, though guilt already pricks at his conscience like tiny needles. The memory of what happened earlier with Izzy burns through his mind—the soft sounds she made, the way her body yielded to him—as he pads barefoot across the carpet toward the en suite bathroom.
The cool tile against his feet grounds him momentarily as he relieves himself, avoiding his own reflection in the mirror above the sink. He doesn't need to see the evidence of his shame; he feels it weighing on him already, heavy and insistent. The water runs cold over his hands, and he splashes some on his face, hoping to wash away the desire that still lingers beneath his skin like a fever.
"What the fuck are you doing?" he whispers to himself, the words barely audible over the running water. The question has no answer, or perhaps too many.
He dries his hands on the plush towel hanging beside the sink and slips back into the hallway. The house is quiet, a midnight stillness that should feel peaceful but instead hangs heavy with possibility. Chris tells himself he's just checking on the girls, as any good father would. A harmless paternal instinct. Nothing more.
Izzy's door is closed but not latched. He pushes it open just enough to see her sleeping form tangled in the sheets, her hair spread across the pillow like spilled ink. His throat tightens as he watches the gentle rise and fall of her chest, remembering how just hours ago she had arched beneath him, her whispered pleas nearly undoing him completely. In sleep, her face holds an innocence that makes his stomach twist with renewed guilt. She's his daughter, for Christ's sake.
Yet his body betrays him, hardening at the mere memory of their forbidden encounter. He grips the doorframe, knuckles whitening with the effort it takes not to step inside, not to wake her and repeat the taboo pleasure they'd discovered. Instead, he forces himself to close her door with a soft click, exhaling a shaky breath into the darkened hallway.
Only he then notices a thin strip of light spilling onto the carpet from beneath Liza’s door. He pauses, frowning. "Why is she still awake at this hour?" he thinks, then remembers how Liza had watched them. Masturbating while he fucked her sister.
“Just go back to bed,” he tells himself. But his dick twitches in response to the memory while his feet carry him farther down the hall, toward her room.
What am I doing? he thinks as his hand reaches for the doorknob, curiosity and something darker guiding his movements.
The door opens without resistance, revealing Liza standing by her bed, her long, wavy blonde hair cascading over her shoulders, framing her face perfectly.
Chris's breath stops in his lungs as he adores her form. She's wearing nothing but a thin transparent tank top and cotton panties, her skin glowing in the soft lamplight.
Her eyes widen when she sees him, but there's no fear in them, only recognition and something else—a flicker of the same hunger he's trying to fight.
"Liza," he manages, the name catching in his throat. "It's late, you should be—"
"Sleeping?" she finishes, her lips curving into a smile that's both innocent and knowing. "I couldn't sleep after what I saw earlier... Dad."
Chris feels the blood drain from his face, then rush back with alarming speed. "Listen about that," he says, his hand still gripping the doorknob, his body poised for escape, yet he doesn't move. “I think I need to explain what happened."
"Oh... I know what happened," she says, her voice low and silky. She lifts the teddy bear from her lap, setting it aside with an almost reverent care. "I saw my father fucking my sister."
Liza, that’s—
"And then," she interrupts, the crude words flowing from her lips with deliberate precision. "I saw how you pinned her wrists above her head while you thrust into her. I heard how she begged you not to stop."
Liza slowly started to move towards him. "Do you have any idea how wet it made me to watch the two of you? How many times have I imagined you doing the same things to me?"
Chris steps completely inside her room, resting his back against the door, which closes with a soft click behind him. He should be horrified, should be stammering apologies and excuses. Instead, his cock hardens painfully against the thin fabric of his sweatpants, a physical betrayal he can't hide from her predatory gaze.
"Listen, it was wrong what your sister and I did," he whispers, but there's no conviction in his voice, only a desperate plea to his better self that's rapidly losing ground.
"Fucking Izzy was wrong?" Liza questions him, her movements fluid and purposeful as she approaches. "You didn't seem to think so when you were making her come on your cock."
"Okay, maybe wrong isn’t the correct term," Chris says, the words ashen in his mouth. "It was a terrible mistake that can't ever happen again."
Liza stops inches from him, close enough that he can smell her perfume—something sweet and floral that reminds him painfully of her youth. She tilts her head, studying him like a fascinating specimen. "Is that why you're hard right now? Because it was such a terrible mistake?"
She reaches out, her fingertips grazing the exposed skin of his chest where his t-shirt has ridden up. The contact sends electricity racing through his veins, and he sucks in a sharp breath. His hands move reflexively to grab her wrists, but he doesn't push her away. Can't push her away.
"Sometimes a mistake can be the best thing to happen," she continues, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, “And I’m sure I can be so much better of a mistake for you than Izzy was." Her eyes, so like her mother's, hold a challenge that ignites something primal in him. "I watched how you fucked her. I know exactly what you like now."
Chris stands frozen, caught between desire and the last crumbling remnants of his morality, as Liza presses herself against him, her body warm and yielding through the thin barrier of their clothes. He's backed against the door with nowhere to go, trapped by his own weakness and the determined seduction of his younger, eighteen-year-old daughter.
"Please," he says, but his hands have relaxed their grip on her wrists, allowing her fingers to trail lower toward the waistband of his sweatpants. "Liza, I'm your father."
She laughs softly, the sound wrapping around him like silk. "That didn't stop you with Izzy, did it?" Her palm presses flat against his stomach, fingers dipping beneath the elastic of his shorts. "I watched you. I heard what you said to her while you were inside her." Her breath is warm against his neck as she leans in closer. "I want you to say those things to me, too."
Her hand slips lower, and Chris groans, a sound of torment and surrender as her fingers brush against his hardness with confident pressure before teasingly moving away.
"Cross that line with me, too, Daddy," she whispers against his ear, and whatever resistance he had left crumbles completely beneath the weight of her words.
Liza's palm against his chest burns through the thin cotton of his t-shirt, her fingers splayed wide as if attempting to claim him. The heat of her touch radiates outward, melting his resolve like ice in summer. Chris stands paralyzed, caught between the door at his back and the forbidden desire before him, his body responding with shameful eagerness to his daughter's advances. His mind screams at him to push her away, to return to his wife's bed, but his muscles refuse to obey, traitors to his better judgment.
"I've wanted this for so long," Liza whispers, her voice husky with need. She presses closer, the sheer fabric of her teddy offering little barrier between their bodies. "I've seen how you looked at me when you thought no one would notice. The way your eyes follow me around after dinner, or how you stared at me when I came downstairs in my holiday pajamas."
Chris swallows hard, unable to deny her accusations. She isn't wrong—he's stolen glances, harbored thoughts that no father should entertain. But until tonight, until Izzy, he'd never acted on them.
"You've always favored Izzy," she continues, her fingers walking a deliberate path down his torso. "Always so attentive to her, helping with her homework, showing up at her volleyball games." Her mouth curls into a knowing smile. "But I can please you better than she ever could. I know I can."
Her hand dips lower, inside his boxers once more. This time, her fingers wrap around his cock with confident familiarity, as if she's touched him this way a hundred times before.
Chris groans, his hips involuntarily pushing forward into her grip.
"Jesus, Liza," he gasps, his hands moving to grasp her wrists, but the motion lacks conviction. He holds her there, neither pulling her closer nor pushing her away, suspended in the limbo of his own conflicted desires. "We can't do this."
"We're already doing it," she counters, her thumb circling the sensitive head of his cock, spreading the wetness gathered there. "And don't pretend you don't want it. I can feel how much your dick is liking this."
She strokes him with slow, measured movements that send pulses of pleasure through his body. His grip on her wrists slackens, allowing her greater freedom to explore him. The rational part of his mind grows quieter with each passing second, drowned out by the roaring of blood in his ears and the heavy throb of his arousal.
"Everyone else is asleep," Liza murmurs, her lips brushing against his jaw as she speaks. "Mom's knocked out from drinking all that eggnog. It's just us now." She twists her wrist on the upstroke, and Chris's knees nearly buckle from the sensation. "No one will ever know."
But someone already knows, he thinks hazily. Izzy knows.
The thought of his other daughter—of what they'd done together just hours earlier—should dampen his desire, should reinforce the wrongness of this moment. Instead, it only inflames him further, knowing that both sisters now share this secret with him, this terrible, exhilarating secret.
"This is beyond fucked up," he whispers, but his hands have moved to Liza's hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh there, neither pushing her away nor pulling her closer—simply holding on as if she's the only solid thing in a world that's spinning out of control.
"What's fucked up is how you made me cum watching you fuck Izzy," Liza replies, her voice taking on an edge. "I heard how she moaned when you put your mouth on her. The way she begged you to fuck her harder." Her hand continues its maddening rhythm on his cock, alternating between feather-light touches and firm strokes that make his breath catch. "I couldn’t stop touching myself while I watched you two. And then when you looked right at me… Fuck I came so hard."
The image she paints—of her pleasuring herself while watching him with Izzy—sends a fresh surge of blood to his groin, making him impossibly harder in her grasp. The wrongness of it all, the taboo nature of their connection, only seems to heighten the intensity of his desire. It's as if the more lines they cross, the less each subsequent transgression matters.
"I'm your father," he makes one final, desperate attempt at resistance, the words hollow even as they leave his mouth. "There are boundaries that shouldn't be crossed."
Liza laughs, a soft, knowing sound that cuts through his weak protest like a blade. "You already crossed those boundaries with Izzy. I watched you do it." Her free hand moves to cup his face, forcing him to meet her gaze. "I want what she had. I deserve it more than she does."
There's something in her eyes—a hunger, a challenge, a desperation—that resonates with the darkest parts of him. The parts that have always wanted what they shouldn't have, that have chafed against the restrictions of propriety and morality. Chris feels the last of his resistance crumbling, like a dam giving way before the relentless pressure of a flood.
Her hand tightens around his cock, stroking him with newfound urgency. "Cross that line with me, too," she demands, her voice barely above a whisper but carrying the force of a command. "I need you to fuck me like you fucked her. I need you inside me, filling me up." Her breath comes faster now, her chest rising and falling rapidly beneath the sheer teddy. "Please, Daddy. I need it so bad."
The word—"Daddy"—breaks something fundamental inside him. The same word Izzy had whispered as she came around him, clutching him with her internal muscles, milking him dry. Now Liza uses it like a key, unlocking the cage of his last moral restraints.
With a growl that comes from somewhere primal and unrecognizable, Chris grabs Liza roughly by the shoulders, spinning them both so that she's the one pressed against the door. His mouth crashes down on hers, all pretense of resistance abandoned. The kiss is brutal, punishing, as if he's trying to devour her or destroy himself in the process.
"Is this what you want?" he asks against her lips, his voice a harsh rasp. "You want to be fucked by your father? You want to betray your mother the way your sister did?"
Liza moans into his mouth, her body arching against his. "Yes," she hisses. "God, yes. That's exactly what I want." Her hands clutch at his shoulders, her nails digging in through the fabric of his shirt. "I want you to ruin me."
And Chris, God help him, is beyond the point of return. The last threads of his self-control snap like overtaxed wires, and he surrenders completely to the darkness that's been growing inside him since the moment he first crossed the forbidden threshold with Izzy. Whatever he was before this night—husband, father, decent man—that person no longer exists. In his place stands only need, raw and untempered by conscience or consequence.
"Then that's what you'll get," he promises, his hands already working to free himself from his underwear, all hesitation vanished like smoke. "That's exactly what you'll get."
Chris grabs Liza by her shoulders and shoves her backward toward the bed, his movements rough with urgency. His boxers drop to his ankles as he kicks them aside, his cock standing rigid between them. Liza scrambles back onto the mattress, her eyes never leaving his as she hooks her thumbs into her shorts and slides them down her legs with practiced ease, letting her nightshirt remain, bunched around her waist, a mockery of innocence as she positions herself against the pillows and spreads her legs in blatant invitation.
"Look how wet I am for you," she whispers, her fingers tracing the glistening folds between her thighs. "I've been like this all night, thinking about what you did to Izzy, imagining it was me instead."
Chris crawls onto the bed, a predator stalking his prey. His rational mind has receded entirely, replaced by something primitive and hungry that recognizes only the need to possess, to claim, to desecrate. He falls on top of her, his mouth crushing against hers in a kiss that's more punishment than pleasure. Liza moans into him, her body arching up to meet his, her hardened nipples pressing against his chest through the thin fabric of her teddy.
"Is this what you wanted?" he growls against her mouth, one hand roughly kneading her breast through the sheer material. "To be fucked by your father? To know what your sister felt?"
"Yes," she gasps, her hips grinding against his erection with desperate need. "God, yes. I want to feel you inside me too. I need it."
Chris positions himself at her entrance, the head of his cock nudging against her slick heat. He feels her tightness as he begins to push forward slowly, watching her face contort with the overwhelming sensation. She's impossibly tight around him, her body resisting the intrusion even as she mentally craves it.
"Oh fuck," Liza cries out, her hands gripping his shoulders hard enough to leave marks. "You're so big, I didn't—ah!" Her words dissolve into a sharp gasp as he pushes in another inch.
For a moment, Chris hesitates, a flicker of concern penetrating the fog of his lust. "Should I stop?"
"No!" she hisses, her legs wrapping around his waist and pulling him forward with surprising strength. "Don't you fucking dare stop now."
The force of her legs draws him deeper, and they both groan at the sensation. Chris feels himself sliding into her inch by agonizing inch, her body gradually yielding to accept him. She's tighter than Izzy had been, gripping him like a vise, the friction almost painful in its intensity.
"Jesus, Liza," he pants, sweat beading on his forehead as he struggles to maintain control. "You're so fucking tight."
"Deeper," she commands, her nails digging into his back through his t-shirt. "I want all of you. Fuck me deeper than you fucked her!"
Her words destroy whatever hesitation might have remained in him. With a groan that's half pleasure and half surrender, Chris drives forward until he's fully seated inside her, their bodies completely joined. Liza's head falls back against the pillows, her mouth open in a silent scream of pleasure-pain, her inner muscles fluttering around his invading length.
For a moment, they remain frozen in this taboo connection, both adjusting to the overwhelming sensation. Then Liza rolls her hips experimentally, and Chris begins to move. His thrusts start slow but quickly build in intensity, each drive forward pushing her deeper into the mattress. The bed creaks beneath them, a rhythmic accompaniment to their forbidden dance.
"That's it," Liza moans, her hands now tangled in his hair, pulling him down for another hungry kiss. "Fuck me like you mean it. Show me what you gave her."
The mention of...
