Daddy Sniffed My Dirty Panties

I had always thought of myself as a solid, dependable man. Forty-two years old, still carrying the muscle from years of physical work before the office job, dark hair just starting to show a little gray at the temples, a thick cock that Jane had always praised for its size and stamina. We had built a good life together in the quiet suburban house on Maple Lane—mortgage nearly paid, one daughter who had just turned eighteen, and the kind of routine that felt comfortable until it wasn’t.

The redundancy notice arrived on a gray Tuesday. My department had outperformed every other division, yet the company still needed bodies to cut. I walked out of the building with a severance package that would cover the remaining mortgage and a few months of bills, nothing more. Jane and I sat at the kitchen table that night, the fluorescent light buzzing overhead, and mapped out the only path that made sense. She would take the full-time hours her boss had been offering. I would stay home, keep the house running, look after Angie when she wasn’t at college, and hunt for work in a town where jobs had dried up like old paint.

The first weeks were pure humiliation. I vacuumed carpets that didn’t need it, folded laundry with military precision, cooked dinners that Jane ate while half-asleep after long shifts at the office. Angie watched it all with that little half-smile she had perfected since her body filled out. She was eighteen now, legally adult, but the way she moved through the house still carried the careless grace of a girl who knew every male eye followed her. Long red hair that fell past her shoulders, freckles dusted across her nose, a mouth that always looked a little swollen, as if she had just been kissed hard. Her tits had grown heavy and full, the kind that strained against whatever thin top she wore, nipples that poked through fabric when the air conditioning kicked on. Her ass was round and high, the kind that made her jeans look painted on. And her legs—Christ, those legs went on forever, smooth and pale, ending in the kind of feet that somehow made even flip-flops look erotic.

She had boyfriends the way other girls had homework. Different one almost every night. I told myself it was normal. College girls experimented. Jane had been the same at that age. Still, every time Angie left the house in a short skirt and one of those barely-there lace bras, my mind wandered. I wondered if the boy of the night got to peel those clothes off, if he got to taste the soft skin between her thighs, if he left his mark inside her.

It started on a Monday when both of them were gone. Jane at work, Angie at lectures until late. I carried the laundry basket into her room the way I always did, scooping up the clothes she left scattered across the floor like a trail. Her panties were near the bed—small, pale pink, the crotch darkened with a dried, crusty stain that could only be one thing. I stood there longer than I should have, the fabric dangling from my fingers. The smell hit me before I even lifted them to my face: sharp, salty, the unmistakable musk of cum mixed with the sweeter scent of her own cunt. My cock went rigid so fast it hurt. I hadn’t been this hard in months.

I closed the door. Locked it. Sat on the edge of her unmade bed and pressed the soft lace to my nose, breathing deep. The scent filled my head, thick and dirty. I freed my cock with my other hand. It sprang out, thick and veined, the head already shiny with precum. I wrapped the panties around the shaft and stroked slowly, inhaling the evidence of whatever boy had fucked my daughter the night before. The thought should have disgusted me. Instead it made my balls draw up tight. I came harder than I had in years, thick ropes of cum soaking into the pink fabric until it was wet and sticky again. I sat there shaking, cock still twitching, the smell of my own load mixing with hers.

That night I fucked Jane like a man possessed. She came twice, nails digging into my back, whispering that whatever had gotten into me she hoped it stayed. I didn’t tell her. How could I?

The next day the same thing happened. Fresh panties on the floor, this time black lace, the crotch soaked and reeking of sex. I sniffed them until my cock ached, then jerked off into them again, slower this time, drawing it out, imagining the boy’s cock stretching her open while she moaned into a pillow. By the end of the week I was checking her laundry every morning. Five or six nights out of seven her panties carried the proof. Sometimes the stains were heavy, thick white crusts. Sometimes lighter, as if he had pulled out and finished on her thighs or stomach and she had wiped with the fabric. Once I found a pair that smelled only of her own juices and a faint trace of spit—she must have sucked him off instead.

I started going through her drawers. Birth control pills, half a pack used. A bright pink dildo the size of my forearm, still faintly sticky. A smaller bullet vibrator. A pair of handcuffs with soft pink fur. My daughter was not the innocent little girl I had tucked in at night. She was a slut, pure and simple, and the knowledge made my cock leak every time I thought about it.

One Friday afternoon she came home early. I was in her room, her dirty panties pressed to my face, cock in my fist, when the door opened. She froze in the doorway, keys still in her hand. Her eyes dropped to my cock, then to the lace wrapped around it.

“Daddy?” Her voice was soft, almost curious.

I should have stuffed myself away, apologized, pretended it was a one-time madness. Instead I kept stroking. “You left them on the floor again,” I said. “They smell like you got fucked last night.”

Color rose in her cheeks, but she didn’t run. She stepped inside and closed the door. “Maybe I did.” She bit her lower lip. “Does that make you hard, Daddy? Smelling another man’s cum in your little girl’s panties?”

I nodded. My voice came out rough. “It makes me want to fill them myself.”

She walked closer, hips swaying. She was wearing a short denim skirt and a thin white tank top with no bra. Her nipples were already hard. “Show me.”

I lifted the panties higher, inhaling deep, and pumped my cock faster. She watched every stroke, tongue flicking out to wet her lips. When I came, thick jets of cum spurted into the crotch of her dirty underwear, mixing with whatever was already there. She made a small sound, almost a whimper.

“That was so fucking hot,” she whispered. “I’ve been leaving them for you on purpose the last few days. Wondering if you’d notice.”

I stared at her. “You knew?”

“I hoped.” She stepped between my knees, took the cum-soaked panties from my hand, and pressed them to her own face, breathing in the combined scents. Then she dropped to her knees, pushed my thighs apart, and licked a thick strand of cum from the head of my cock. “Mmm. Tastes better mixed with mine.”

I groaned. She took me into her mouth without another word, lips stretching around the thick shaft, tongue swirling under the head the way Jane used to when we first started dating. She sucked like she had been practicing for years—deep, wet, noisy. Spit ran down my balls. Her hand cupped them, rolling gently, then harder. I tangled my fingers in her red hair and fucked her face in short strokes. She gagged once, eyes watering, but she didn’t pull off. She took it deeper until her nose pressed against my stomach and my cockhead nudged the back of her throat.

When I warned her I was close she only moaned and sucked harder. I came down her throat in long pulses. She swallowed every drop, then licked me clean, looking up at me with glassy eyes.

“I’ve wanted this for months,” she said, voice hoarse. “Every time I came home smelling like some boy I imagined it was you. That it was your cum dripping out of me.”

I pulled her up onto the bed. The skirt rode up. She wasn’t wearing panties. Her cunt was bare, smooth, the lips already swollen and shiny. I pushed her thighs apart and buried my face between them. She tasted like sex and salt and something sweeter underneath. I licked her open, tongue flat against her clit, then pushed inside, fucking her with it while she rocked against my mouth. Her fingers dug into my hair. She came quickly, thighs clamping around my head, a broken cry escaping her throat.

I didn’t give her time to recover. I flipped her onto her stomach, yanked the skirt higher, and spread her cheeks. Her asshole winked at me, pink and tight. I spat on it, rubbed the spit in with my thumb, then pressed the head of my cock against her cunt and shoved in to the hilt in one long stroke. She was soaked, but still tight enough that the pressure made my eyes roll back. I fucked her hard from the start—deep, punishing thrusts that slapped my balls against her clit. She moaned into the pillow, pushing back to meet every stroke.

“Harder, Daddy. Fuck your little girl harder.”

I did. The bedframe banged against the wall. Her juices coated my cock and dripped down my balls. I reached under her and pinched her clit between two fingers, rubbing in tight circles while I pounded her. She came again, cunt spasming around me, milking my cock. I held out as long as I could, then buried myself deep and flooded her. Pulse after pulse of thick cum, so much it leaked out around my shaft while I was still inside.

We stayed locked together, breathing hard. After a minute she twisted her head to look at me over her shoulder. “Again,” she said. “I want you to fuck me again before Mom gets home.”

I pulled out. My cock was still half-hard, shiny with our mixed fluids. She rolled onto her back, spread her legs, and reached down to scoop some of the cum leaking from her cunt. She brought the fingers to her mouth and sucked them clean, then offered the rest to me. I licked her fingers, tasting both of us.

This time I took her slower. I kissed her deep while I pushed back inside, tasting my own cum on her tongue. Her legs wrapped around my waist. I rocked into her with long, grinding strokes, the head of my cock dragging against the spot that made her gasp every time. Her tits bounced with the motion. I sucked one nipple into my mouth, biting just hard enough to make her arch. She came a third time with a quiet sob, cunt fluttering around me. I followed a few strokes later, filling her again until she was overflowing.

We cleaned up in a daze. She put on fresh panties—white cotton this time—and the short skirt. I went downstairs and started dinner like nothing had happened. When Jane came home she kissed me, commented that I looked flushed, and sat down to eat. Angie sat across the table, eyes meeting mine every few minutes, a secret little smile on her lips. Under the table her bare foot found my crotch and rubbed slowly until my cock was hard again.

That night after Jane fell asleep I slipped out of bed and into Angie’s room. She was waiting, naked under the covers. We fucked in silence, slow and deep, her hand over my mouth when she came so she wouldn’t wake her mother. I came inside her again, then pulled out and watched my cum drip down the crack of her ass. She reached back, gathered it on her fingers, and pushed it into her asshole while I watched.

The days that followed blurred into a private fever. Every time Jane was at work or asleep, Angie and I found each other. I fucked her over the kitchen counter while the washing machine ran. She sucked me under the desk in the study while I pretended to answer job emails. One afternoon she bent over the dryer, skirt flipped up, and begged me to breed her even though she was on the pill. I did, flooding her so thoroughly that when she stood up a thick rivulet ran down the inside of her thigh.