Thomas Everett shifts uncomfortably in his seat as the strip club's music pounds through his body. The last place he wants to be is here, surrounded by his hooting coworkers and flashing lights that make his head throb. He nurses his beer, checking his watch for the tenth time, wondering how much longer he has to endure this "team bonding" before he can slip away unnoticed. The alcohol isn't enough to ease the feeling that he doesn't belong here, that a married man his age should be home with his wife, not ogling young women while dollar bills are waved in the air.

"Lighten up, Tom!" Will Thompson shouts over the music, clapping him on the shoulder. "This is supposed to be fun, not a fucking funeral!"

Thomas forces a smile and takes another swig of his beer. "Yeah, just tired. Long week."

The announcer's voice booms over the speakers: "Gentlemen, please welcome to the stage... the sensual, the stunning... Phoenix!"

The club lights dim except for a spotlight on the stage. Thomas leans back, planning his exit strategy, when the dancer emerges from behind the curtain. His breath catches in his throat as his eyes focus on her face.

"No--Fucking--Way!"

The world around him disintegrates into white noise as he recognizes the features he's known since she was born. His daughter. Emily. His little girl is strutting across the stage in nothing but a G-string and shimmering pasties, moving her body in ways that make the men around him howl like animals.

"Holy shit, she's hot," Will mutters beside him, leaning forward eagerly.

Thomas can't speak. Can't move. His hands grip the table so hard that his knuckles turn white. He should leave. Stand up right now and walk out. But his body refuses to obey as Emily—no, "Phoenix"—wraps herself around the pole and slides down into a split.

"What the fuck is she doing here? She's supposed to be at her college studying right now."

Thomas stares, his eye transfixed as his daughter's hips rotate, slow and deliberate, her legs impossibly graceful as they open, close, open again. She arches her spine and glances down through the strobe haze, making eye contact with a smirking guy at the edge of the stage—some college kid, head thrown back in a wolfish grin.

I knew she was taking dance classes, yes, but not... this. Not stripping for a room full of drunk, horny men twice her age. Men like him.

"Fuck," Thomas whispers as a horrifying realization creeps into his consciousness—his body is responding. Despite the shock, despite knowing it's his daughter on that stage, blood rushes to his groin, and his cock stiffens against his will.

"What kind of monster gets hard watching his own daughter strip?" Thomas thinks, disgusted with himself. He tries to look away, but his eyes keep returning to Emily as she works the pole with surprising skill, her body undulating to the pulsing beat as her fingertips trail down her thighs, inviting every man's gaze to follow, including his own.

Thomas's eyes remain fixated on his daughter's crotch. He can't turn away, mesmerized and horrified at once. Emily's hand slides along the inside of her thigh, pushing the G-string to a dangerous angle, and he can see the wink of her bare lips, shaved and glistening, as she spreads her legs for the rowdy crowd. She dips so low her hair brushes the stage, then pops to her feet, and as she does, their eyes meet across the room.

Her expression changes—a flash of shock, then... something else. Recognition. A slight, knowing smile that tears at his soul.

"She knows I'm here. She knows I'm watching her."

Emily doesn't miss a beat. If anything, the discovery sharpens her act. Her green eyes lock on him even as she shimmies and spins, holding his gaze, daring him to look away. Thomas's pulse kicks in his wrists and neck. His face is hot and clammy; his heart pounds so loudly he can barely hear the music. But he cannot, for the life of him, stop watching.

The whole club seems to dissolve: the jeers, the crumpled bills, Will's drunken leering, all gone. There is only the shining, athletic body of his daughter onstage, and the mortifying, magnetic pull of her attention fixed on him.

She throws him a sly wink as she straddles a chair, tilting her ass high in the air and rolling her hips to the music. Thomas feels his erection throb, shame and lust warring inside him. He thinks of Linda—her soft, aging body at home watching an old drama, falling asleep to the TV with a cat in her lap. He thinks of how much he has failed, how he has failed as a husband, but far more as a father, a sensation so sharp it nearly undoes him. But still, he stays, unable to move, his cock hard against the zipper of his khakis as Emily—Phoenix—undulates to the music, rolling her shoulders and stroking the pole like a lover's thigh.

She draws the routine out, stretching the three-minute song into a slow burn, never breaking eye contact with her father.

By the time the song fades, Thomas's mouth is dry, palms are sweating, heart is jackhammering. He expects her to vanish behind the curtain, out of his life, but instead she scoops the crumpled bills from the stage and stalks directly toward him, hips swinging.

"Oh fuck she's coming this way!" he thinks, as he bolts to his feet, knocking over his chair.

Thomas pushes through the crowd, ignoring Will calling after him. He needs air. Needs to get away from this place, from what he's seen, from the sickening arousal still throbbing in his pants.

The cool night air hits him like a slap as he stumbles into the parking lot. He leans against his truck, gulping down breaths, trying to purge the image of Emily on that stage from his mind. But it's burned there, playing on repeat—her graceful movements, her confident smile, the curves of her body that no father should notice.

"What the fuck is wrong with me?" he mutters, climbing into his truck and slamming the door.

---

Two hours and a half bottle of whiskey later, Thomas slumps in his recliner, the TV casting flickering shadows across the darkened living room. Linda is already asleep in their bedroom, blissfully unaware of the nightmare their family has become.

His head swims with alcohol and shame as he pours another glass with trembling hands. The whiskey burns down his throat, but it can't burn away the memory of Emily on that stage or the disgust he feels toward himself.

"How did I fail so badly as a father?" he wonders, staring at the amber liquid in his glass. "When did my little girl decide to become a stripper? And why, for fuck's sake, do I get hard watching her?"

The empty bottle slips from his fingers, rolling across the carpet as his eyelids grow heavy. The room spins as consciousness slips away, dragging him into blissful oblivion.

---

"Dad. Dad, wake up."

Thomas stirs, his mouth dry and head pounding. He blinks against the dim light of the table lamp someone has switched on. As his vision clears, Emily's face comes into focus, still wearing makeup from her performance, her eyes hard and unreadable.

"Emily?" he croaks, struggling to sit up straight. "What time is it?"

"Late," she says flatly, crossing her arms over her chest. She's changed into shorts and a crop top that still reveals too much skin for his comfort. "We need to talk."

Thomas rubs his face, the reality of the evening crashing back over him. "No, we don't. Not now. I'm going to bed."

As he tries to stand, Emily plants a hand on his chest, pushing him back into the recliner. "Why did you run out of the club like that?"

It's not a question. Thomas avoids her gaze, shame washing over him anew.

"I don't know you'd be there. The guys from work—"

"Save it," Emily cuts him off. "I saw how you were watching me. I saw the excitement in your eyes."

Thomas shakes his head, desperate to escape this conversation.

"Your mother's asleep. We shouldn't talk about this right—"

"Mom takes sleeping pills. She won't hear a thing," Emily says, her voice dropping lower. "What I want to know is... do you enjoy seeing me like that?"

The question hits him like a physical blow.

"What? No! Jesus Christ, Emily, you're my daughter!"

Emily's lips curve into a knowing smile that sends a chill down his spine.

"You're lying, Dad. I could see it in your face." She steps closer, her voice a dangerous whisper. "I could see how hard you got watching me."

"That's enough!" Thomas hisses, his face burning with shame. "This conversation is over."

But Emily is already moving, sliding onto his lap in a fluid motion that speaks of her training.

"I don't think it is," she says, placing her hands on his shoulders. "I think we're just getting started."

"Emily, what the hell are you doing?" Thomas's voice is strangled, caught between anger and panic.

She begins to move her hips in a slow circle, just like she did on stage.

"What does it look like, Dad? I'm dancing for you." Her eyes lock with his, challenging. "Just like at the club. Only this time, you don't have to hide how much it turns you on."

Thomas grips the armrests of the chair, determined not to touch her. "This is wrong. You know this is wrong."

Emily leans closer, her breath warm against his ear. "Then why can I feel you getting hard again already?"

And God help him, she's right.

Thomas sits frozen in the recliner, his daughter's body moving against him in rhythmic waves. Every rational part of his brain screams at him to push her off, to end this madness before it goes any further. But his hands remain gripped to the armrests, his body betraying him with each passing second. The thin fabric of Emily's shorts does nothing to mask the heat radiating from her core as she grinds against his growing erection, and the scent of her perfume—sweet and intoxicating—fills his nostrils with each breath.

"Emily, stop this," he manages, his voice strained and unconvincing even to his own ears. "Your mother is just down the hall."

Emily's lips curl into a knowing smile as she leans closer, her breasts pressing against his chest.

"I told you, she took her pills. She won't hear a thing." Her hips roll against him deliberately. "Besides, that just makes it more exciting, doesn't it?"

Thomas turns his face away, shame burning through him. Linda, his wife of twenty-five years, lies asleep just a few rooms away, while their daughter grinds on his lap. What kind of husband is he? What kind of father? The weight of his betrayal crushes him, yet his cock throbs harder beneath Emily's movements.

"This is wrong," he whispers, more to himself than to her. "You're my daughter, for Christ's sake."

Emily takes his chin between her fingers, forcing him to look at her.

"I saw you tonight, Dad. I saw how hard you got watching me dance." Her voice drops to a sultry whisper. "I liked it. I liked knowing I made you hard."

Thomas swallows hard, his mouth suddenly dry. "That was... a mistake. A physical reaction. It didn't mean anything."

"Bullshit," Emily says, rolling her hips more forcefully against his erection.

"Your body doesn't lie. You wanted me then, and you want me now." Her fingers trail down his chest, stopping at his belt. "I want to see it again."

"See what?" Thomas asks, though he knows exactly what she means.

"Your cock," Emily replies without hesitation. "How hard it gets for me."

Jesus Christ, Thomas thinks, his head spinning. This can't be happening. Yet Emily's fingers are already working at his belt, and he's not stopping her.

"What the fuck is wrong with me?" His brain shouts.

"Emily, we need to talk about this," he tries again, grabbing her wrist but not pulling it away. "Why are you doing this? Is this about money? The strip club?"

Emily laughs, a sound both familiar and strangely different—more knowing, more adult than he's ready to accept.

"This isn't about money, Dad. This is about what I want." She leans forward, her lips brushing his ear. "And right now, I want to see if you're as big as you looked when you got up and ran away."

His grip on her wrist weakens. "This is crazy. You don't know what you're doing."

"Don't I?" Emily challenges, successfully unbuckling his belt. "I know exactly what I'm doing. I've been dancing for men for months now. Making them hard, making them want me."

She slides down the zipper of his pants. "But none of them made me feel the way I do when I see you watching me tonight."

Thomas's head falls back against the chair as Emily's hand slips inside his boxers, her cool fingers wrapping around his shaft. He should stop this. He knows he should stop this. But his body won't respond to his mind's desperate commands.

"Fuck, Emily," he groans, his hips lifting involuntarily as she strokes him.

Emily's eyes widen with delight. "See? You do want this." She pulls his cock free from his pants, examining it with appreciative eyes. "You're even bigger than I imagined."

Thomas watches in paralyzed fascination as his own daughter handles his erection like a prized possession. The wrongness of it all should kill his arousal, but instead, it only seems to heighten it. His cock throbs in her grip, a bead of precum forming at the tip.

"We can't do this," he says weakly, even as his hips push upward into her touch.

Emily stands suddenly, and for a moment, Thomas thinks she's come to her senses. Instead, she hooks her thumbs into the waistband of her shorts and slides them down her legs, revealing that she's wearing nothing underneath. His breath catches at the sight of her smooth, bare pussy, glistening with arousal.

"Emily, what are you—"

Before he can finish, she straddles him again, this time with nothing separating them but the fabric of his pants around his thighs. His exposed cock presses against her heat, and Thomas has to bite his lip to keep from moaning.

"What are you doing?" he asks, his voice barely audible.

Emily rolls her hips, sliding her wet slit along the length of his shaft. "Giving you a lap dance, Daddy. What does it look like?"

The term "Daddy" sends an electric current through Thomas's body. It's what she called him as a little girl, innocent and pure. Now, spoken in that sultry voice while she grinds against his cock, it's transformed into something forbidden and arousing.

"This isn't a lap dance," Thomas says, his hands finally moving from the armrests to grip her waist, though whether to stop her or guide her, he's not entirely sure. "This is something else entirely."

Emily smiles down at him, rolling her hips more deliberately so that his cock slides between her wet folds without entering her. "Do you like it? Do you like how wet I am for you?"

Thomas can't bring himself to answer, but his body responds for him, his cock jerking against her slick entrance. Emily's movements become more purposeful, her breathing quickening as she pleasures herself against him.

"I can feel how much you want it," she whispers, leaning forward so her breasts are level with his face. Through her thin crop top, he can see her nipples hardened into tight peaks. "You want to be inside me, don't you, Dad?"

"Emily, please," Thomas begs, not even sure what he's begging for anymore—for her to stop or for her to continue.

She takes one of his hands and places it on her breast, moaning softly when he instinctively squeezes. "That feels so good," she purrs, arching into his touch. "Touch me more, Dad. I know you want to."

And God helps him, he does. His other hand slides around to grip her ass, pulling her tighter against him as he kneads her breast through her top. Emily responds by grinding harder, her pussy lips parting slightly around the head of his cock with each movement.

"Can you feel how wet you make me?" she asks, her voice breathy with desire. "No one else does this to me. Only you."

Thomas's resolve crumbles further with each word, each movement. The alcohol in his system, the feel of her body against his, the forbidden nature of their connection—it all combines into a perfect storm of desire that overwhelms his better judgment.

"We shouldn't," he says again, but his hands are already sliding under her crop top, touching bare skin, feeling the weight of her breasts directly.

Emily pulls the top over her head and tosses it aside, fully exposing herself to him. "But we are," she counters, taking his face in her hands. "And you love it. I can tell."

As she leans down to press her lips against his, Thomas knows he's lost the battle. His daughter's naked body moves against him, her wetness coating his shaft, and all he can think about is how desperately he wants to be inside her.

What have I become? he wonders, even as his lips part to accept her kiss.

Thomas stares up at his daughter's naked body, glistening with a thin sheen of sweat in the dim light of the living room. His last threads of resistance are unraveling with each roll of her hips, each press of her wet pussy against his throbbing cock. He knows what's about to happen—knows it's unforgivable—yet his hands grip her waist tighter, pulling her against him instead of pushing her away. The whiskey clouds his judgment, but not enough that he can blame the alcohol for what he wants. And God helps him, he wants this.

"Emily," he whispers, a final, feeble protest. "We have to stop. If we go any further—"

"Shh," she silences him, placing a finger against his lips. "Stop fighting it, Dad. I can feel how much you want me."

She's right. His cock is harder than it's been in years, straining upward, seeking her heat. With each movement of her hips, the head of his cock nudges against her entrance, threatening to slip inside. The sensation is maddening.

"I should push her off right now," Thomas thinks, his hands trembling against her skin. "This...