My roommates dad caught me sneaking and ended up sneaking inside me

The words feel like a confession I should be ashamed of, but the shame just makes it hotter. My roommates dad caught me sneaking and ended up sneaking inside me, and my body hasn’t stopped humming since.

It all started last weekend. I live with two other girls in this shitty, creaky-floored house just off campus, a place where the water heater has a mind of its own. My roommate Chloe mentioned her dad was coming by to fix it. I’d seen him before, in passing. He’s older, maybe in his late forties, with these broad shoulders and thick, capable hands that looked like they’d built things, broken things. The kind of guy whose silence feels heavier than other people’s shouts. He doesn’t need to try to be intimidating; it just radiates from him.

That afternoon, I’d just gotten out of the shower, skin flushed and steam still clinging to the air. A sudden, stupid realization hit me: my towel was still in the laundry basket downstairs. The house was supposed to be empty—Chloe was at class, Sarah was at work. Thinking I was alone, I didn’t even bother to drip-dry. I just cracked the bathroom door and made a naked, dripping dash across the hall towards the stairs.

I was so wrong.

Halfway down the stairs, the cold air hitting my wet skin, I saw him. He was crouched in the doorway to the kitchen, his tool bag wide open, a mess of wrenches and pipes. And he was positioned perfectly to have a full, unobstructed view of my sprint. My stomach didn’t just drop; it plummeted. I froze for a second on the steps, completely exposed, water trickling down my back and between my thighs. My instinct was to cover myself, but my arms were pinned to my sides by sheer panic. When I finally managed to glance back, his eyes were already locked on me. Not with surprise or apology, but with a slow, deliberate appraisal. He didn’t look away. He just watched, his gaze a physical weight tracing the curve of my hip, the swell of my breasts, the vulnerable patch of darkness between my legs. It was a look that didn’t ask for permission; it simply took.

I scrambled back upstairs, my heart hammering against my ribs, and shut myself in my room. But the feeling of his eyes on my skin didn’t fade. It lingered like a brand.

That night, after the girls had gone to bed, the house was quiet except for the frantic rhythm of my own thoughts. I was lying in bed, tangled in my sheets, and I couldn’t stop replaying that look. It had been invasive, wrong, but it had ignited something deep and dormant inside me—a filthy, thrilling curiosity. I told myself I was just going downstairs for a glass of water, a pathetic excuse even in my own head. The wooden stairs groaned under my bare feet as I crept down.

The living room was dark, but a sliver of moonlight cut through the blinds, illuminating the couch. And he was still there, sitting upright, not sleeping. A bottle of beer was on the coffee table, half-empty. He’d been waiting. I knew it with a certainty that made my knees weak. I froze again, just like I had on the stairs, a deer in the predatory stillness of his presence.

No words were spoken. The only sound was the frantic pulse in my ears. He stood up, and the space between us seemed to shrink. He moved with a quiet, terrifying purpose. Before I could form a thought, he was in front of me. His hands, those rough, working hands I’d noticed earlier, found my hips and spun me around, pressing my front firmly against the cold, humming metal of the refrigerator. A small, pathetic sound escaped my lips.

One of his hands slid up to roughly knead my breast, his thumb circling my nipple until it was a hard, aching peak. The other hand slid down the front of my thin cotton shorts, his calloused fingers not asking, but demanding entry. He found my panties already soaked, a wet patch he grunted at with approval. “Knew you’d be thinking about this all day,” he whispered, his voice a low gravel against my ear. He didn’t bother with finesse, just hooked a finger and tore the flimsy fabric aside. The sound of the rip was obscene.

He was thick and hard, and he slid into me without a moment’s hesitation. There was no gentle easing, just one deep, claiming thrust that stole the air from my lungs. I was tighter than he expected; I felt it in the way his body jerked against mine. “Fuck, you’re a tight little secret, aren’t you?” he growled into my ear, his breath hot and smelling of beer. I bit my lip to keep from crying out, my roommates sleeping just a floor above us. But my body was betraying me, clenching around him, welcoming the invasion.

He fucked me like he owned the house, like he owned me. His pace was relentless, each slam of his hips jolting me against the fridge, making the magnets rattle. One of his hands left my breast and wrapped around my throat, not choking me, but holding me there, a constant reminder of his control. The other hand gripped my hip, his fingers digging into my flesh, surely leaving bruises. I was just a thing for him to use, and the realization made me come undone. A climax ripped through me, violent and shuddering, my moans muffled against the refrigerator door. My legs turned to jelly, but he held me up, his grip on my throat tightening just a fraction.

He didn’t stop. He kept pounding into me, his own grunts becoming more ragged. “Gonna fill up this dirty little cunt,” he promised, his voice strained. I felt him swell inside me, the rhythm becoming erratic, and then with a final, deep thrust, he buried himself to the hilt. A hot, pulsing rush flooded me as he came, his body shuddering against my back. He held himself there for a long moment before slowly pulling out. I felt his cum, hot and sticky, start to trickle down the inside of my thigh. Then, he turned me around, his cock still glistening with our mixed wetness, and stroked himself twice, painting a final, possessive stripe of white across my ass cheek.

I cleaned up quietly in the downstairs bathroom, my legs shaking so badly I could barely stand. I looked at my reflection—flushed cheeks, wild eyes, the faint red mark of his hand on my throat. Inside, I didn’t feel regret. I felt like a well-used, dirty slut, and the craving for my roommate’s dad was already a desperate ache in my belly. I know, with absolute certainty, that the next time he shows up, I’ll be waiting. And I’ll let him use me anywhere he wants.