Finding My Daughter

Karlie Montana barely holds together. Years ago she miscarried as a teenager; the loss, combined with the jagged mess of her childhood, left her mind in pieces. Her old therapist could only patch the cracks enough for her to pass as normal. In private she still stole data, obsessively hunting for any girl who might replace the daughter she lost. Now a bright-eyed new therapist keeps urging her to act out the fantasy, guiding her to a nearby address. On Melissa Moore’s doorstep, Karlie introduces herself as a census worker, notebook ready, pen poised, eyes already straying. Melissa lets her in. The resemblance is striking—soft cheeks, full mouth, same age the lost child would be. Karlie asks the usual questions, voice calm, while her gaze drifts lower each time Melissa shifts on the couch. The notebook dips. Conversation dies. Fingers slide under cotton and find warm skin. Karlie drops to her knees. She parts Melissa’s thighs, tongue pressing against the swollen clitoris until Melissa gasps and grips the cushions. The strokes are practiced, relentless; it isn’t long before Melissa cries out and comes hard, thighs shaking around Karlie’s face. Afterward Karlie guides Melissa’s mouth between her own legs, teaching her with low murmurs and guiding hands. When Melissa’s tongue grows confident, Karlie pulls her up, wraps her legs around her waist, and they grind together until both are wet and gasping. Then she flips them into a sixty-nine, grinding back as they lick one another in sync, bodies locked and slick with need.