Daddy's Little Girls

A Daddy and two very different Little Girls.

Anger. Love. Desire. Tragic misunderstanding.

A family — father, mother, and daughter — reunited and redefined.

For a family torn apart by jealousy and simmering taboo longings, this is a Christmas of redemption, a chance to come together again, a chance to move past long-standing grudges and explore lusts both old and new.

For a husband and father, filled with rage and frustration and loss, the holiday brings a chance to begin anew, to re-unite with the two most beautiful and important women in his life — the graceful, petite and jealous wife from whom he had first learned the excitement of “daddy play,” and his newly returned daughter, banished by her mother years ago, who has now grown into a sexy beauty eager to start a far more intimate kind of relationship with her father. And mother.

Will father and daughter give into their desires for one another?

Can a wayward daughter bring a broken family together again, in a new, more honest and intimate way?

And are two women, torn apart by jealousy and misunderstanding, able to find the love and acceptance they both crave, with each other and with the Daddy they both need?

Welcome to another volume in Kethandra Wilde’s popular PotErotica series, where the freeing euphoria of marijuana helps open doors to sexual delights and opportunities that might otherwise be missed.

~~~~~ PG Excerpt ~~~~~

My two Baby Girls. Why did it take my child, my daughter, to show me how little I knew about my own ruin of a marriage? My wife Priscilla had been so happy, those big beautiful joyful eyes looking up me. I had felt needed, important, loved keeping her pampered and coddled.

When she grew unhappy, when those eyes hadn't looked at me with that joy in them anymore, why hadn't I seen it, known to do what had always made her so happy before?

It hit me then. Like the last pieces of a puzzle falling into place, revealing a picture glimpsed previously but not recognized.

Priscilla had always wanted to be babied, it was true. At home. In public, she has always been so organized, confident, in control. Her parents were flighty, at best. Her father had been a bipolar con man, able to schmooze investors into cockamamie schemes one day, unable to stop crying or leave the house on another. We had paid off the last of the refinance debt that covered his mistakes only last year, almost two decades after his death. The woman he had married, Priscilla's mother, seemed to care for nothing beyond her orchids and her yappy little dogs.

As a teen, it was Priscilla who balanced the bank accounts, for home and for the struggling dealership, and made sure the bills were paid. She made sure there was food on the table and clean clothes for school, setting money aside for the lean times she had come to expect. I gave the adult Priscilla room to finally be a child, my little girl, parented and cared for, and then I took that treasure away and gave it to another, our own little girl. I betrayed her.