Even by morning, we weren't finished.
In the cold spray of the shower, we felt every inch of each other's bodies, merging as one until our sweat, her floral scent, and my musk blended into a single, primal odor.
Her choked moans echoed off the tiles.
I didn't hold back—each thrust was rough, possessive, driving into her with the full length of my shaft until my hips slammed against her ass.
Water splashed around us as I pounded her relentlessly, one hand reaching around to pinch and roll her hardened nipple, the other slipping between her legs to rub tight circles over her swollen clit.
Her moans grew choked and desperate, muffled against her arm as she bit down to stifle them.
But I didn't let her hide.
I pulled her hair back gently, forcing her head up, making her cries ring out louder.
Her walls clenched around me, pulsing as she came hard, her body shuddering while I kept thrusting through it.
Only when I felt my own release building did I bury myself deep and unload, thick pulses of cum flooding her, spilling out around my cock and mixing with the water running down her thighs.
At the breakfast table, Eriri's face was a mask of dripping gloom.
She knew.
We hadn't even tried to be quiet—the headboard slamming, Sayuri's unrestrained screams, my low groans—all of it had carried through the thin walls all night and into the morning.
"Mom," she began, her voice tight with disgust, "what are you doing with Ito-kun? Aren't you ashamed of your own age? He's almost the same age as your own daughter. And he's also your sister's son."
Sayuri answered with infuriating nonchalance, stirring her tea calmly. "We love each other, Eriri-chan. And he will be your father now. You will address him with respect."
Eriri shot up from her chair, the legs screeching against the floor.
"I hate you, mother!" she spat before storming out of the room.
I turned to Sayuri, a carefully crafted look of feigned worry on my face. "Will she ever accept us being together, Auntie?"
"Don't worry, Ito-kun. She will be fine." Sayuri smiled sweetly, reaching over to pat my hand, utterly oblivious.
"I'll talk to her, Auntie," I said, standing up, my voice firm with manufactured determination. "I want to be closer to my soon-to-be daughter."
"I believe in you, Ito-kun." Her smile was one of pure, misguided encouragement.
I made my way to Eriri's bedroom, the same room where, across two timelines, I had claimed her completely—spread her legs on that bed, buried myself in her tight heat, made her scream my name until she broke.
Some things, it seems, are woven into the very fabric of existence.
Even in this current timeline, Eriri still needed love. That deep, twisted, desperate craving hadn't changed.
So let me, as her new father, give her all the love she needs.
Of course, it won't be straightforward.
I won't force a thing.
Instead, I will let Eriri take the initiative. I will let her feel my gentleness, my understanding, my overwhelming "paternal" care, until the pressure of her own confused longing becomes too much.
Until she can't hold back her own feelings anymore and is forced to vent all of them—the anger, the jealousy, the need—onto me.
Forcefully.
And when her mother finally sees it all… what choice will she make?
In the previous timeline, she killed me because I was the one who took initiative.
But what if, this time, I'm not the cheating seducer?
What if I'm the one coerced by her own daughter's uncontrollable lust?
I couldn't help but anticipate her reaction.
The shock. The betrayal. The devastating, delicious confusion.
I would savor every last moment of it.
...
"Hmph, what do you want, Makoto-san? Are you here to humiliate me, too?" Eriri snorted coldly at my presence, probably cursing herself for forgetting to lock the door and allowing me inside.
The late morning sun cut through her window, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air between us, a visible barrier of tension.
Even the way she addressed my name had changed. In Japan, being called by your first name is a symbol of closeness, while using your last name is considered distant and formal.
That's how deeply my sudden relationship with her mother had impacted her mind.
And of course she was angry.
She'd carried a quiet, burning crush for me since the first time we met, something unspoken but palpable in the way her gaze lingered and her cheeks colored.
Then, without warning or ceremony, her mother had claimed me.
Then, with brutal, breathtaking speed, I had been pulled from the category of 'potential boyfriend' and shoved into the role of 'stepfather.'
How could she not feel betrayed? How could she not feel mocked by fate?
But god, she was captivating like this. Not the sweet, submissive Eriri of other timelines—the one who melted at a kind word and followed with docile eyes. No, this was Eriri in full, glorious rebellion.
Her anger made her vivid, alive in a way that stirred something darker and more possessive in me. This time, I didn't want gentle affection. I wanted her aggression, her resistance, all the unspoken longing and lust she'd now have to direct at the man she was supposed to call father.
"Well now, young lady," I said, my voice dropping into a tone of gentle, paternal authority that I knew would grate against her nerves. "That's not how you speak to your stepfather. There's a respect that comes with the title."
She snorted again, the sound icy. "You are not my father. And stay away from my mother, you jerk!"
Ah, yes—that face. The flushed, indignant, rebellious face I never got to see in our vanilla route. She was truly lovely like this.
I let my own expression fracture, allowing a well-practiced mask of hurt to slip into place.
My shoulders slumped slightly, and I took a deliberate, wounded step back, making the space between us feel like a chasm I was too pained to cross.
"Is that… is that truly what you think of me, my dear daughter?" I asked, layering my voice with a fragile sadness. "Does the idea of me being part of your family really disgust you so much?"
The effect was instantaneous and electric.
Her anger evaporated, replaced by a flood of panicked guilt.
The color drained from her furious cheeks, leaving her pale.
"N-No! Ito-kun, wait! I didn't… I didn't mean it like that!" she stammered, scrambling off the bed, her earlier defiance collapsing into frantic backpedaling.
The "-kun" was back, a lifeline she threw instinctively.
"It's just… the word 'stepfather' is so heavy, so annoying! It makes everything weird! I… I'd much rather just call you Ito-kun. Like before. Please?"
Checkmate.
The first layer of defense was breached.
I let the sadness linger in my eyes for a moment longer, letting her stew in the guilt of hurting me, before I allowed a small, forgiving smile to touch my lips.
My gaze traveled over her, taking in the familiar navy blue blazer, the pleated skirt, the knee-high socks—the uniform of the innocent schoolgirl.
A perfect costume for the game ahead.
"How about we go to school together today, then?" I suggested, my tone light, as if offering a peace treaty. "I could use the walk."
It was a calculated move. In other timelines, I'd skipped school entirely, seeing it as a trivial backdrop. But here, it was a stage. I wanted the hallways, the classrooms, the public pretense to all feed the private corruption.
I wanted to strengthen this twisted "father-daughter" bond in daylight so that when I finally bent her over her own bed at night, the word daddy would tear from her throat in a mix of shame and ecstasy.
I imagined the future vividly—mother and daughter, side by side, both mine in every sense, a sandwich of shared submission and breeding.
Oblivious to the depravity of my thoughts, Eriri simply blinked, thrown off-balance by the mundane suggestion.
The emotional whiplash—from her outburst to my hurt to this simple request—left her disarmed.
She fidgeted, playing with the cuff of her blazer.
"Urgh… fine, alright, you win, Ito-kun," she mumbled, a reluctant surrender in her voice. "But you have to promise! At school, you don't breathe a word about being my stepfather. If anyone found out… I'd die of embarrassment. We're just… friends. Okay?"
"Don't worry, Eriri-chan," I said, my smile widening into something genuinely cheerful, a wolf's grin in sheep's clothing. "At school, we're the very best of friends. Our little secret."
She let out a long, shaky sigh, a mixture of resignation, relief, and something else—a flicker of anticipation at the thought of walking to school with me, even under these fraught new terms.
"Let's go, then," she said, turning to grab her bag, avoiding my eyes. "Go change your clothes. We're leaving now."
And just like that, I began stripping away my stepdaughter's defenses away, layer by patient layer—her anger, her pride, her resistance—until nothing was left but the raw, marked truth in her heart: that she belonged to me.
Everything began here.