A dad at work caught my eye… so I turned on the charm.

When I turned 18, I landed a summer job at a community pool bustling with families. I’m used to attention—being above average in looks—but the flirty guys there were mostly creeps. Married men or sleazy older dudes would hit on me, asking for my number or making gross comments about “taking care” of me. I brushed them off, but it was uncomfortable, and there wasn’t much I could do.

One guy stood out, though—a younger divorced dad who caught my eye the first day he walked in. Stylish, trendy, but mature enough to make my stomach flutter every time he spoke. He was charming, funny, and always used my actual name, not some patronizing pet name like “honey” or “babe.” And those shorts he wore? Let’s just say they hinted at something impressive that fueled my teenage imagination. I was smitten, no question.

I went out of my way to be extra friendly—slipping him free snacks at the concession stand, hoping he’d notice my crush. He never crossed any lines, which I appreciated; he could’ve easily taken advantage, but he was genuinely decent. Still, at that point in my life, I was obsessed with the idea of being with a dad. I babysat for families and would never mess with a married man, but my fantasies ran wild, and this guy starred in them. I pictured him being gentle yet commanding, his big hands on me, that mustache working wonders—every detail drove me crazy when I touched myself.

As graduation loomed and I prepared to leave for an out-of-state college, I realized I might never see him again. So, I took a chance. I made an excuse to pass by him, slipped him a note with my number, and blurted, “The back bathroom’s out of order—nobody uses it. Text me, and I’ll meet you there during my break.” My hands were shaking as I walked away, terrified he might report me. But back at the counter, my phone buzzed with his reply: “Not here.” I asked, “Where?” He said, “Text me when your shift’s over.”

After closing around 9:30 PM, I texted him, nerves in overdrive. He lived two minutes away, said everyone at his place was asleep, and invited me over. I was a mess of excitement and anxiety but agreed. At his place, we sat down, and he asked what I’d planned for the bathroom. Flustered, I rambled about wanting to kiss him, feel his hands on my waist, and take him in my mouth while he played with my hair—then clapped my hand over my mouth, mortified at my own honesty. He asked if I still wanted that, and I nodded, heart racing.

He cupped my face, his large hand warm against my cheek, and kissed me. My skin burned, my body pulsing with need. He guided my hand to his sweatpants, where he was already rock-hard. I stroked him instinctively, and soon he was out, and I was on my knees, living out my fantasy. His fingers wove through my hair, massaging my scalp as he whispered dirty talk that set me on fire. When he asked if I wanted him inside me, I could barely breathe but said yes.

In his bedroom, he tugged down my work shorts, bent me over the bed, and went down on me, his mouth driving me wild. Time blurred until he stood, pressed himself against me, and slid in—raw and overwhelming. I felt stretched to my limits, gasping so loudly he covered my mouth with one hand while stroking my hair with the other. He moved slowly, pulling out completely before plunging back in, each thrust deliberate. Then he flipped me onto my back, pushed my knees up, and entered me again. I asked him to hold me, and he wrapped his arms around me, cradling my head, kissing my cheek as he picked up the pace. I came hard—intense, uncontrollable, the best orgasm I’d ever had. He kept going, finishing deep inside me. We lay there briefly before I cleaned up and headed home, still reeling from it all.