Trigger Warning: This story includes daddy-daughter play and taboo themes. If that's too much for you, please feel free to skip this post.
Ayan and Smita had been married for nearly five years. They were a normal couple just starting off with marriage, filled with laughter, romance and passion. They would tease one another about their future children; Ayan vowed that he wanted a girl child while Smita dreamt about having a boy.
At first, everything seemed perfect. But then came the devastating news from medical examinations that showed Smita had low ovarian reserve. She had an option to become pregnant naturally, but her chances were slim, and the window was small. They never gave up. They tried treatments, prayers and endless hope, but after five years, Smita still failed to conceive. The pressure mounted and she fell into a state of sadness and depression, feeling guilty and helpless.
After five more years, Ayan tenderly proposed adoption rather than continuing to experience further heartbreak. But Smita was stubborn; she passionately desired a baby of her own.
Eventually, seven years into their marriage, Smita finally got pregnant. The happiness that returned was overwhelming and they loved each other even more deeply. Soon they welcomed a beautiful baby girl whom they named Riya.
Twelve years had passed and Riya was now an intelligent, confident and fashionable teenager. She was extremely good-looking and her charismatic nature captured everyone at first glance.
The bond between Ayan and Riya was, in fact, much stronger than the bond Ayan shared with Smita. The old joke that Ayan would love a daughter more than a son proved true. He loved Riya deeply and could put his complete trust in her.
He never deprived her of her freedom: he allowed her school trips, let her spend weekends with friends, took her shopping, watched movies together, and satisfied every small desire of hers. Riya was daddy's girl through and through, and Ayan adored spoiling her.
The love that flourished between them as father and daughter grew stronger with time. Their friendship became unbreakable.
One night when Riya was 15, she awoke after midnight with a dry throat and slipped down the corridor to the kitchen. The house was quiet, and the only light was a thin, warm glow that slid out from the half-opened door of her parents' room. She heard quiet noises as she moved past—muffled groans, the rustling of bedsheets, and the grunt of her father. She stood still, breathing hard, and though she didn't exactly want to, she found herself approaching closer.
In the bedroom, Smita giggled like an inexperienced girl, sprawled against Ayan with her hair cascading over the pillow, her voice sweet with desire: "Aaah... Ayan…" His sweaty back glistened and his muscles contracted as he thrust deeper inside her, his voice becoming rough and strained: "mmm… God Smita…" Their pace was methodical and hungry, the bed creaking faintly against the wall.
Riya held her breath. She had never seen them like this—so bare, so intimate. Her mother grabbed at his shoulders with clawing hands, her face flushed, her lips parted in small gasps. She stood transfixed, watching this passion as her father moved up to kiss Smita's neck, his voice harsh with desire: "Smita... so good... I have missed this..."
Then her mother moaned and said, "Yes, yes, yes, yes... Daddy!"
Hearing that word, Riya shivered, an odd warmth pooling between her legs. Her thighs pressed together, breath catching. For a brief, startled moment, her hand hovered near her chest, fingertips brushing lightly over her breast as if to steady her racing heart. It was scary and beautiful at the same time—seeing her parents not as parents but as man and woman expressing their passion and love for each other.
She tore herself away and bolted back to bed, heart pounding, her face burning. In the days that followed, the memory wouldn't leave her head—the image of her father, his muscles straining under sweat, the curve of her mother's hips, those soft, dirty moans. The memory came to her late at night when she was alone, and hugging her pillow, she would touch her chest, making herself shiver and ache with pleasure.
Extended Plot
At 16, Riya transferred to a college hostel in the city. It had that damp wall and stale incense smell, and early on, the evenings were loud and chaotic. But gradually, the girls in her dorm became like family. At dinner time, they would cram onto slender mattresses, knees drawn up, whispering secrets to each other under the hum of tube lights.
One night, after teasing about silly crushes, the conversation turned to more intimate topics: older men.
"Grey and white hair is simply..." Meenal sucked her lip, sighing. "Just imagine him taking his shirt off slowly..." Aarti laughed, "I mean men with real watches, real cologne, big rough hands... not these college boys who fumble around." A flush crept over Riya's cheeks, her heart beating faster.
With a hoarse voice, Nisha added, "Older men don't hurry. They make you beg... they know exactly what they're doing." Someone else chimed in, "Some dare to whisper filthy things right against your ear when they breathe so close." Another girl smirked at Riya, teasing, "Your dad still keeps in shape, right? Bet he looks hot fresh out of the shower."
Riya's breath caught, a flutter deep in her stomach. They all laughed, half-ashamed of themselves, but beneath the giggles something else beat harder: a longing for deep voices, steady hands, that wicked calm. Riya forced a smile, but inside, heat curled tighter. Unbidden thoughts came: Papa in the morning, shirt damp and clinging faintly to his chest, clean stubble, and the quiet strength of his arms. It felt wrong, but oh, so good.
That night, alone in bed, she hugged her pillow, squeezed her thighs together, heart racing, and wondered why thoughts of Papa stirred something so deep inside her—something no boy had ever awakened.
Gradually, there grew in some hidden corner of her heart the realization that her father was a man too: tender, mature, protective, and agonizingly attractive.
It was almost graduation time when Riya had been doing well—classes were nearly finished, her internship was completed, and everything in life seemed perfect. Then her mother, Smita, called to say she wasn't feeling well. Riya could hardly bear it; she wanted so desperately to put everything aside and fly home, but her father, Ayan, wouldn't permit it. He stayed calm even while clearly in pain and pleaded with her, "Don't leave until you finish the semester. It's what Mum wanted." So Riya stayed, though the guilt never left her.
A couple of months later, the news grew worse. Smita wasn't going to recover. That same year, when Riya was 19 and had just graduated, Smita passed away. Riya's tragedy was compounded by the lingering doubt that she had somehow failed her mother.
When she finally came home after graduation, she had undergone a transformation. She was less communicative, more withdrawn. Life's burden of sorrow had made her stronger than she ever anticipated, but it had also changed her fundamentally. Ayan could see the change—there was pride in what she had become, but also sadness as the little girl he had known had disappeared.
Living together under the same roof proved difficult. There was an emotional distance between them, and sometimes they would sit through entire dinners without speaking, both lost in their own memories.
One night, alone in her room, Riya mindlessly clicked on a late-night video sent by a former roommate called "Woman of the House." The screen flickered with darkness, a man's voice gentle and persuasive, a young woman's anxious responses that slowly and chaotically became breathless "Daddy" whimpers.
At first, her heart raced with guilt, but warmth flowed in the pit of her belly. Her thighs clenched together as heat seeped between her legs, dampening her panties. Her fingers fumbled at first, then moved with growing conviction, tracing slick heat as her breath caught and her chest rose and fell rapidly.
Halfway through, she finally understood—father and daughter, a shameless forbidden relationship. She felt a crystallizing mix of shame and raw lust until her whole body trembled. Flushed, she raised her hips slightly off the bed, feeling pleasure heating and trembling through her body as she threw her head back in small, ragged gasps.
Wetness glistened on her fingers. Her thighs closed tightly around her tender touch as a hushed "Daddy" whispered itself into her racing thoughts. Shame colored her cheeks, but her hips rocked wantonly against her hand. In a crude, strangled voice she barely recognized as her own, she moaned aloud in the darkness, "Fuck me, Daddy."
Thanks for reading!
I want this to feel real but still deliciously dirty. A slow, tempting build where Daddy and daughter both feel the pull but don't admit it at first. Little touches, hidden thoughts, and guilt that transforms into real, wild longing—desires neither of them can deny.
Looking for someone to play Daddy who can tease, tempt, and push her past guilt until the craving wins.
Contact Information
When you approach me for roleplay, please include the following:
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Introduction: A brief intro about yourself, including your kinks, limits (if any), and any fantasies or ideas that could make the plot even more exciting.
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Writing Sample: A sample reply from one of your previous plays so I can understand your writing style. If you don't have one ready, no problem—I'll give you a small scenario and you can write a response based on that.
I personally put a lot of effort into my writing and really enjoy when that same energy is reflected back. It helps keep the flow engaging and makes me even more enthusiastic to continue our chat and play together.
Important: If I don't see these elements in your message, I simply won't reply. Since I get a lot of DMs, this helps me filter for the best partners and makes the process smoother when you share everything clearly upfront.
See you in my DMs, Daddy 💋