“daddy and son make love” is morning light through lace curtains. She wakes tangled in white sheets, hair wild, skin warm. The first thing “daddy and son make love” shows is her hand slipping beneath cotton panties already soaked from dreams. Lazy circles turn urgent; fabric darkens under her touch. She kicks the sheet away, knees falling open, giving “daddy and son make love” an unobstructed view of fingers plunging in and out, thumb relentless on her clit. Sunbeams dance across trembling thighs. In “daddy and son make love”, she comes quietly at first—then louder, back bowing off the mattress, crying “daddy and son make love” like a prayer into the empty room as pulses milk her fingers dry.