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DESCRIPTIONThis new chapter in the best-selling father-daughter erotica series follows Angela, Katie's roommate, in her personal quest to seduce her strict Marine daddy. This busty brat will stop at nothing to tempt, tease and torment her father until he's forced to punish her the only way a naughty girl should be: With spanking, domination and total submission. Angela wants to be her father's dirty little whore, and he can't resist her forever!EXCERPTWhen she was done with her makeup, she presented herself to him for inspection. He took her chin in his fingers once more and turned her this way and that. And then he couldn't help himself from stealing a tight, close-mouthed kiss on her lips. She grinned as she reached up to wipe some lipstick from his lip."This is very wrong, you know," he said."But doesn't it feel good, daddy, knowing you can use me whenever you want?""And what do you get out of this?" he asked, arching an eyebrow.She played with his tie, not willing to meet his gaze, and then studiously adjusted it and tightened it around his collar. "Money?" she said. "I am a good little whore, aren't I?""You are," he said. "But is that why?"She bit her lip. Her cheeks, to his astonishment, actually blossomed a deep red. "When your hands are on me, there's nothing else in this world I want...other than to be filled by you." She dared to look at him, her voice now a low, breathy whisper. "I want you, daddy. Won't you just let me want you?""You know I always give you what you want."Her tawny eyes flashed. "Yes, daddy. I do."
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by Veronica Sloan
Published by Veronica Sloan at Lot’s Cave
Daddy’s Forbidden Desire Volume No.5
Angela's Awakening, © 2017, by Veronica Sloan
All Rights Reserved
Cover by Veronica Sloan
All Characters In This Book Are Age 18 Or Older
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only and may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this ebook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this ebook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to the Lot’s Cave website and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
A Lot’s Cave Novel
“Daddy?” said Angela. She was lying on the couch, her dark hair nested behind her on the armrest and her bare legs draped over the cushions. Her freshly shaved skin shined in the morning light.
Jim sat across from her in the easy chair, reading a newspaper. Upstairs, his wife moved about the rooms. “What is it, princess?” he said after a moment, absorbed by the Business section.
“How much do men pay whores?”
If he'd been drinking his coffee he would have spit it all out. The newspaper crackled against his lap. “What?”
Angela twisted on the couch until her devious little eyes peeked at him over the couch rest. “You know, whores. How much do men pay them?”
He was baffled. He frowned at her. “Why would you ask me that?” he said.
She shrugged into her too-big t-shirt. Inside it, her large breasts rolled forward against the fabric. Her arms, legs and neck - all that he could see - boasted the same dark tan as her mother, and each limb swayed with restless motion, waiting for his answer. “I have a friend who joined an escort service,” she said. “She says she likes it.”
Jim shook his head. “Angie, that's bizarre. I don't understand. Why are you asking me?”
“Just making conversation, daddy.” Her big eyes fluttered up at him behind the pillow. “She says the money's really good, and she's kind of a...wild girl.”
“I'm sure she is.”
“Do you know how much men pay?” she asked again.
He sighed. “No, of course not.”
Angela giggled. “She says it's more common than people think. I was just wondering if you know anyone who did that, like at work or something.”
The truth was, Jim did know a few guys at work - both at his current office and his old one - who used escorts. He'd even been to a few parties where they'd been in the room. Gorgeous girls. And polite. Girls you'd never have imagined...usually young, and who left on the arms of men that he'd worked with for years. When he thought about that, he calmed down some. Angela was probably just curious. Though the subject made him uncomfortable, especially talking to his daughter of twenty-two years. “Well, now that you mention it,” he said, “there were some guys, back in the old days...”
“Really?” said Angela. She pushed herself up on the couch and crossed her arms over the armrest, the book she'd been pretending to read falling forgotten to the floor.
Jim couldn't help but notice that, because of the looseness of her blouse, Angela's breasts moved quite freely. He was sure she didn't mean to, but her position on the couch meant that her full, busty cleavage was pushed right out towards his face. He looked away, to the coffee table. It was his daughter, and he'd had several years to get used to her hips and bust, the new curves that developed in the blink of an eye, similar to her mother at that age - though he had to admit, every inch of Angela seemed springier, riper and more lustrous by far.
He tried not to let it bother him when Angela traipsed through the house in her bikinis (especially with her friends) or her form-fitting sports gear. But it did bother him. She was his princess, and he'd never considered himself a lecherous man...but there were physical responses to certain sights that defied parental strictness. He sighed to himself. The biggest bother to him was how much effort it took NOT to notice, especially when she did things like squirm around on the couch without a bra. But this was her home, too, and she was allowed.
Still, these days, when it seemed he and Rhonda hardly ever went at it between the sheets, it stirred something in his manhood... He realized Angela's big tawny eyes were still waiting patiently for him to speak. He took another deep breath. “Yes, really,” he said. “I've known some co-workers who went with escorts. I hope this isn't a good friend of yours?”
“Oh, dad, lighten up,” she teased. Then she looked thoughtful. “I was just wondering why she always seemed busy over the weekends. She's one of those girls who's always studying - pre-law or something - but we used to get together over the weekends. And then suddenly she's busy those nights, too. She finally told me about it a few weeks ago.”
“That's a dangerous thing to do,” he said. “I hope she didn't give you any ideas,” he joked. It wasn't really a joke.
She laughed brightly. “Oh my God, of course not. That's so gross. And so dirty. But it's fascinating. Don't you think it's fascinating?”
“I don't know, princess.”
Angela went on. She clearly thought it was very interesting. “She says that she makes a lot of money, and she pays half of it to her madam or whatever. She uses a fake name and she gets driven to hotels. She says most of the guys are pretty normal. You know, working guys, like you.”
Jim scoffed. “A working guy like me can't spend the money on something like that.”
“So you do know how much it costs,” she teased.
He shook his head vehemently. “I know it's not cheap. Those are some desperate men.”
“I'm sure they're not all desperate,” said Angela. “Maybe some of them just like it. Certain kind of girl, certain kind of sex-”
He shook himself. “I'm sure I don't know. Why doesn't your friend get a legal job?”
Angela wrinkled her nose. “She's one of those girls who's really straightforward about her life. Straight edge, hits the books, no nonsense. She says it's ridiculous to do any other kind of work when she likes to have sex and the alternative is flipping burgers at Wendy's. She doesn't want to be an escort forever, though.”
“Doesn't want to be a whore full time, I can understand that.”
Angela smiled. “She definitely doesn't call it that.”
“She can call it whatever she wants. But why does she do it? Even if she wanted money, I mean...that's dangerous, Angie.”
“Maybe. I think she likes it. And I know she likes sex. She told me she's a nymphomaniac. Not even her boyfriend knows that.”
Jim folded his paper over his thigh. “She has a boyfriend? Does he know?” Then he frowned. “Are you just making all this up?”
Angela giggled. “No, daddy, it's true. Her boyfriend doesn't know. She said she really likes him but she won't tell him.”
“I'm sure he'd be plenty mad if he found out his girlfriend was...doing that. With other men.”
“Oh, yeah, definitely. But she likes the money too much to stop, I think. That or she really likes sex.”
“Uh-huh,” he said. He shifted the newspaper over his lap. This talk about sex, even with his daughter, was making his boxers a tighter place. He moved his legs. “I just don't get why a young girl would do something like that.”
Angela's dark eyes examined him for an ambiguous moment. “It probably has a lot to do with her father.”
“Well, I don't know the whole story, but she told me once that she was always attracted to her father, and when she told him, he reacted really badly. She just wanted to sleep with him one time, and he said no. I think the escort thing is kind of revenge for that.”
Jim couldn't find the words to express himself. He raised his hands into the air. “That's ridiculous! Angie, you're making this up.”
“No, I swear,” she said, but she was still smiling.
“Princess, is this one of your not-so-subtle ways of asking me for money?” he said. “Like, if I don't give you something you're going to run off and become a prostitute?”
Angela grinned. “You know me so well.”
Jim folded his paper and stood up. “If you want money, get a job.” He turned to the stairs, and quickly turned back. “A decent job, by the way. If I hear you're selling yourself down on Bleaker Street, I'll tan your hide.” He smiled at the absurdity of it all and moved back towards the stairs.
“Ooh, a spanking?” said Angela. “You'd spank me, daddy?”
“Yeah, you bet I would,” he said, mounting the steps. Back in the living room, she giggled again.
Their conversation lingered in his brain long after that morning. Really, it was no different than other pranks Angela had played to get his goat (Rhonda said she did it for his attention), but its overtly sexual nature confused him. No, “confused” was probably the wrong word. It puzzled him. No, that wasn't right either. It...infiltrated him, perhaps. That conversation arrived on a lazy Saturday morning, less than a week since Angela had come home. She was as bright-eyed and delightful as ever, but there was something about her gestures and language these days that, well...
The night that she'd arrived back from Chicago, her mother had been out across town. Jim had picked her up from the train station alone, and when she saw him on the platform she dropped her bags and ran for him - ran for him in her loose buttoned top and cut-off shorts. Her muscular thighs flashed as she pumped them over the pavement, her breasts bounced with outrageous abandon. She was wearing sandals, and they slapped the ground as she ran. Just before she reached him, she jumped. Jim was nearly knocked off his feet. But Angela was short, like her mother, and he was just barely able to catch her and hold her as she planted a big kiss on his lips. “Oh, daddy,” she said, after the smack, “it's good to be home. Did you miss me?” Her strong thighs hugged his hips and her big, soft breasts squashed against his chest.
Too dazed to speak, he tried to keep his balance as all her curves slid softly out of his hands.
What was he supposed to make of that? It was a strange, exuberant greeting, but she'd been at graduate school for a long time. And she'd always been affectionate... But when she dashed back to her bags, she bent over. And when she bent over - well, the cut-off shorts were very, very short, and she bent nearly in half, giving everyone at the station a clear view of the tops of her tanned thighs. More than that! Her tanned, lower butt cheeks. God, they were tight, he caught himself thinking. Rhonda had long since given up on jazzercise, leaving that part of her body sagging and prone to cellulite. When Angela returned to him, she mirrored his frown. “What's wrong, daddy?”
“You just practically mooned the whole place!” he said. “Those shorts are ridiculous.”
She pouted. “You don't like them?”
“It's just very revealing,” he said, trying not to sound as flustered as he felt.
“I'm sorry,” she said, but he didn't believe a syllable of it. “It's just been so hot lately. I barely had time to change into these before I got on the train. Don't be mad.”
“I'm not mad,” he said.
“You look mad, daddy. How can I make it up to you?”
She raised her eyebrows to the clear sky, but he knew when she was teasing. “Come on,” he groused. “Let's get back to the car.” On their way there he commented on her tan. “You look good,” he said. “Healthy.”
“Thanks,” she said, and beamed. “I decided what I'm going to do this summer, and I want to be in good shape.”
“What are you going to do?” he said.
She refused to tell him. She just said, “Wait and see.”
In her defense, it had only been a week since Angela came home for the summer, but Jim still didn't know exactly what she was planning to do. She claimed to be looking for a summer job while he was at work, and her mother defended her, so he took his girls at their word. Nights and weekends were still devoted to her girlfriends and going out, which was fine, he supposed. He didn't like how late she came back at night, but as long as she was safe he wouldn't raise too much hell. Though he did remind her that she shared the house with her mother and father and they didn't like to be woken up.
Sunday morning (1AM was technically Sunday morning), he woke to a blaring radio outside his lawn and the loud slam of a door. Furious, he flipped out of bed and stomped downstairs. He was all prepared to run out of the house in his pajama bottoms and give whoever it was a piece of his mind when, halfway down the steps, he saw Angela creep through the front door with a blonde friend of hers, a girl he'd never seen before but who looked about as drunk as little blonde girls can be.
He stalked the rest of his way down to the foyer, each creak still no louder than the blaring radio outside. “Angela!” he said, “what's going on out there?”
She looked guilty (but not too guilty) and tried to hide her blonde friend behind her back. She wore a tight blue dress and matching blue heels. There might have been sparkles in her hair and on her cheeks. Her friend was wearing most of a tank top and less of a skirt and had all but fallen out of her own heels. “Oh, daddy, did we wake you up?”
He towered over her. “You're damn right you did! What's going on?”
She reached out and patted his chest with a small, dismissive hand. “It's okay. Nevermind. Don't worry.”
He pulled her hand away. “I mean it, Angela. Who's out there?”
“Oh just some boys,” she muttered. “We're done for the night and they still want to party.”
Before she'd finished, he'd flung the front door open to see a big SUV parked halfway up his driveway. Two intoxicated-looking men were at the front. They were frat-looking, and either trying to use their X-ray vision to stare through his garage or too blitzed to see straight.
Bare-chested, Jim marched out into the cold black air and rapped on the driver's door with his bare hand.
Without lowering the window, the one at the wheel turned and gave him a sluggish sneer. “What?” he said.
“You're in my driveway,” said Jim. “Get out.”
“Fuck you, man,” slurred the one in the passenger seat. Almost comatose, the boy chuckled, and collapsed against his headrest.
“I've already called the cops,” said Jim, still talking through the window. “Get your drunk asses off my property.”
Then the driver did something very stupid. He blew through his lips and teeth in a dismissive grunt and popped his door. “Old man,” he said, “you don't tell me what to do.” He stepped down from his seat and glowered at Jim, sneering like he was some kind of wolf.
“You don't want to do that,” said Jim.
“Fuck you!” said the boy, his fist flying.
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