It was still early morning, with the barest hint of dawn coming through the windows, when Mark woke up. He had been having some kind of wet dream, and remembered it in a series of broken, fragmentary detail. There had been a mouth, warm and wet, working its way up his cock. The dream had been vivid in a way most dreams weren’t, the sensation so real that Mark had hung balanced at the edge of orgasm for what felt like hours.

 

Even now he could feel the ghost of that mouth, the slick suction on his glans, the flick of a tongue. Half awake, he wondered if this was just his brain’s way of dealing with the stress of Sophia’s presence in the house. He pressed a fist into his crotch to tamp down the morning wood, but his fingers met soft hair instead of his own boxers.

 

He wasn’t alone in the bed.

 

As adrenaline filled his body, Mark’s first instinct was to freeze. Then, slowly looking down, he saw a shape between his legs, small and curled under his comforter. He felt a soft, insistent pressure; the brush of hair like silk on his thigh, then the deliberate slide of lips against his shaft. For an unending second, he was paralyzed by the knowledge that this was not a dream. Then Mark whipped back the comforter, mind detaching in horror even as his body throbbed with traitorous pleasure, and saw Sophia.

 

She had crawled up between his legs, face buried in his groin, her spine arched at such an angle that the thin cotton of her shirt rode up to reveal the dimples above her ass. Her mouth was fastened to the head of his cock, her jaw working in a deep, insistent rhythm that was almost inhuman in its resolve. She did not look up. Her hands grasped either side of Mark’s hips, pinning him in place, while her tongue traced swirling, devotional circles under the rim of his glans. Her hair, dark and tousled, spilled around her cheeks like a curtain, shrouding her face in a veil of concentration.

 

Mark recoiled, hands clawing for the sheets. He gripped her shoulders, meaning to push her away, but the moment his fingers closed on her flesh she responded with a frantic surge, swallowing his cock entirely. The tight clutch of her throat convulsed around his head, milking him with such exquisite pressure that his vision blurred at the edges. A ragged, involuntary moan escaped his lips.

 

He had to wake her up; this was beyond sick.

 

“Sophia, stop! Jesus, what the fuck are you doing?”

 

Sophia finally woke at the command. She looked up at him with a lazy adoration; eyes bleary from sleep. Then her brain caught up to her, and she looked down at what she was doing.

 

Her expression instantly flickered through a cycle of stages; first confusion, then horror, as her conscious mind registered both the taste in her mouth and the look of panic on Mark’s face; and finally, a white-hot awareness that seemed to cauterize every nerve ending in her body.

 

Sophia jerked backwards, coughing. A string of spit and precum snapped from her lips to the head of Mark’s cock, then broke, spattering across his thigh and the sheets. For a frozen moment, she looked at the mess, and then up at her father.

 

“Oh my god. Oh fuck. I’m so sorry! I’m sorry Daddy—” Sophia jerked away, tears filling her eyes, and scrambled backward off the bed. She crashed into the dresser, picked herself up, and then bolted for the door. She vanished into the hall, and a second later he heard the sharp slam of her bedroom door and the frantic click of the lock.

 

Mark was left alone, heart hammering, his daughters saliva still slick and electric on the underside of his cock. He pulled the covers up to his waist, trying to ignore the fact that he was still shamefully and fully hard. He sat in the dark, cock straining against his boxers, and listened to the muffled sound of Sophia’s retching behind her locked door.

 

He did not sleep again.

 

---

 

After staring at the wall for an hour, Mark reluctantly decided to get out of bed. He stripped the sheets from the bed, still wet with Sophia’s saliva, and stuffed them into the washer with numb, methodical movements. The rest of the house was dead silent. He didn’t need coffee, but he brewed a pot anyway. Standing at the kitchen counter, he sipped from his mug, thoughts still swirling in his head.

 

The memory of his daughter’s mouth on him lingered. He tried not to dwell on it, but the image of her head bobbing, lips drooling, and tongue flicking replayed itself over and over.

 

He started cooking some breakfast out of habit, even though his stomach churned at the thought of eating. He fried up some eggs and bacon, and plated two servings, one for himself and one for Sophia. He hesitated, then set her plate on a tray with a glass of water and a fork, and carried the whole thing upstairs. He moved quietly, pausing in the hallway with the tray balanced on one wide hand. Sophia’s door was still shut tight.

 

He raised his hand, hesitated, then knocked softly. “Hey Soph, are you alright?” He tried to keep his voice gentle. “I just wanted to let you know that I’m not upset with you.”

 

No response. Maybe she had fallen back to sleep.

 

Mark continued, just in case she was listening. “I’ll leave some breakfast out here. You should eat if you can.”

 

He set tray on the floor, and retreated to his study with his coffee.

 

He set his laptop on the desk, opened a fresh browser window, and began to research. He opened scientific papers about operant conditioning, trauma bonding, sexual imprinting; the entire grab bag of classical and contemporary psychological fuckery. He read about learned helplessness, about the neurology of compulsive behavior, about cases of deprogramming.

 

None of it made him feel any better.

 

Every article ultimately said the same thing. There was no quick fix. The brain, once rewired, could only be coaxed into new paths through years of patient, sometimes fruitless effort. Many suggested that the most effective path forward was to find a way to live with the learned behaviors, rather than try to fight against them directly.

 

Mark took his reading glasses off and massaged the bridge of his nose. His eyes burned from so much uninterrupted screen time, and his mood had gone from bad to worse. Looking at the clock, he realized it was already past noon.

 

Lack of sleep and the weight of Sophia’s situation had Mark feeling like shit. He considered jacking off to relieve some stress, but he was afraid of what visions might bubble up once his hand was around his cock; the way Sophia’s hair had brushed against his thighs, the way her mouth had clung so eagerly to the shape of him. He wasn’t sure he could trust his own thoughts anymore. The longer he sat with the memory, the more he doubted every boundary that had once defined him as a father or a man.

 

When he finally left his office, the tray that he had left outside of Sophia’s room had disappeared. _At least she’s eating,_ Mark thought. He decided to fill the afternoon with more housework, and headed outside into the chill damp of the backyard, desperate for a dose of normalcy. He fed the chickens, raked a desultory rake across the sodden garden beds, and stared out across the foggy forest beyond his fence. He tried to think of anything but the taste and heat of his own child, and the way her body had moved between sleep and madness.

 

It was after sunset when Sophia finally emerged from her room. Mark was washing the dirt from his hands in the kitchen when he heard the stairs creak. He looked up, saw his daughter, and for a moment, neither of them spoke. The air between them was thick with the memory of what had happened that morning, and neither seemed willing to be the first to pierce it.

 

“I’m sorry,” Sophia said in tiny voice. She did not meet his eyes. “About… before. I didn’t mean—” She trailed off, shaking her head, and wrapped her arms tight around her waist. “I’ll leave. No one should have a daughter like me.”

 

Mark dried his hands, heart hurting for his daughter.

 

“You’re not going anywhere,” he said. “You’re my daughter, Sophia. I would never abandon you. Not for anything.”

 

Sophia flinched at the intensity in his voice, but the words seemed to settle something inside her. She let out a slow, shuddering breath. “I don’t want to be like this,” she whispered. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

 

Mark swallowed. “You didn’t hurt me. It’s not your fault, okay? None of this is.”

 

She finally looked up at him, and her eyes and cheeks were red from a long day of crying. “I can’t even trust my own brain anymore. It’s like… the person I was is still in here, but there’s all this shit layered on top. I’m afraid to sleep. I’m afraid of what I’ll do next.”

 

Mark reached out and drew her into his arms. Sophia held onto him, squeezing tightly, as if he was the only thing tethering her to the world. They stood there, soaking in the warmth of reconciliation, until Mark finally spoke.

 

“I did some research today. About what happened to you. About how to… undo it.”

 

Sophia’s broke their embrace as she realized what her father was saying. The promise of hope was almost more than she could bear. She wanted to believe him, wanted to rest her entire being in the certainty of his love, but part of her braced for disappointment. She grabbed his arms and studied his expression, unsure if he was serious.

 

“How?” she whispered.

 

Mark hesitated, not quite sure how to explain the new plan in a positive light. “I think our previous plan was a mistake. Fighting your… conditioning… seems to be a cause a huge strain on you; you kept having those panic attacks yesterday, and eventually it seemed like you reached a breaking point after dinner.”

 

Sophia’s cheeks burned. “I— I almost forgot that happened. I’m so sorry.”

 

“Nothing to apologize for,” Mark replied carefully. “I think the point is, we keep going around in circles. I read that the best way to recover from learned compulsions isn’t to suppress them. You let them run, without reinforcement, so the habits eventually fade. Like if you stop giving your dog treats for a while, they can lose their training.”

 

He winced at his poor choice of words, but Sophia didn’t seem to notice. She tilted her head, not sure if she wanted to believe in the possibility of remission, or if she was just too tired to fight any more.

 

“So you mean… I just do whatever comes naturally, no matter how fucked up it is, and eventually it’ll stop?”

 

Mark nodded, a deep unease in his gut. “That’s what the research says. I know it’s not an ideal solution, but… I don’t want to see you in pain again like yesterday. I’d rather you be… yourself. Even if it’s messy.” His hands balled unconsciously into fists. The thought of what that self might be now made his skin hot.

 

Sophia weighed the idea. She tried to hear the plan as something hopeful, not grotesque. “I— I don’t know if I can do it. I’m scared of what I’ll do.”

 

Mark tried to steady his breath, knowing exactly what she was referring to. In that moment he realized he was afraid, not of her, but of himself. But he had to be strong for Sophia. He had to control himself.

 

“It’ll be okay. I’ll make sure things don’t go too far.”

 

After a minute of consideration, Sophia nodded. “Okay, I’ll try it,” she said. “I just want to get better.”

 

Mark nodded, the relief evident on his face. “Me too, baby. We can start tomorrow.”

 

---

 

They ate dinner quietly, both thinking about what tomorrow would bring. After they finished, and the dishes were cleaned, Mark stretched his arms overhead, knuckles audibly popping, and let his eyes linger on the clock. “I’m wiped,” he admitted. “I think I’m going to turn in early. But you can stay up if you want. Watch TV, poke around online, whatever.”

 

Sophia shook her head. “Actually, I’m exhausted too,” she said, pushing back her chair. “I just… want to sleep.”

 

They climbed the stairs together, neither eager to be the first to speak. The air felt different upstairs, heavier, as if the walls themselves were waiting to see what would happen next. At her bedroom door, Sophia paused. She watched Mark shuffle down the hall, then called out, “Daddy?”

 

He stopped and turned. “Yeah, Soph?”

 

She hesitated, biting her cheek. “Would it be okay if I… if I slept in your room again? Just for tonight. I don’t want to be alone.”

 

Mark was caught off-guard. He studied Sophia, her small form eclipsed by the frame of her door, her hands twisted in the hem of her shirt. The fear in her voice was so raw it made him want to weep, but another, uglier emotion squirmed just beneath that: a dark heat sparking in his gut, the memory of her tongue, the way she had looked up at him with those vulnerable, pleading eyes.

 

"Are you sure, honey?" Mark tried to keep his voice even. "Given what happened last night, this morning—"

 

She nodded once, sharp and miserable. "I don't care. Please. I can't be alone."

 

He wanted to say no, to set a boundary for both their sakes, but his daughter needed him. He realized, with a self-loathing clarity, that he needed her just as much. So he nodded. “Of course, sweetie. Whatever makes you comfortable.”

Sophia’s face flickered with relief. She stepped out of her room and padded quietly after him, bare feet whispering on the wood. He held the door for her. Together, they entered the bedroom, and for a moment neither moved to turn on the light, as if both preferred the cover of darkness.

 

Sophia crawled into the same side of the bed as the night before, curling in under the covers. Mark hesitated, then climbed in next to her, keeping a careful distance at first. The bed was wide enough for a safe zone, but Sophia instantly gravitated into the hollow of his body, burrowing beneath his arm until her head rested on his chest.

 

“Thank you, Daddy,” she whispered, hugging him tightly. “For not giving up on me.”

 

Mark squeezed back, his voice hoarse. “Never.”