Page 1 of The Trailer Park Twink
Daddy thinks I’ve been masturbating on OnlyFans simply for financial gain. For months, he’s thought I’ve been stroking it for the world wide web to see, and I’ve let him believe it. If he’s ever going to be mine, hehasto believe it. My whole plan is riding on his faith in me.
Do I have fans? Sure, but I don’t interact with them. My profile was never meant for anything more than showing off for Daddy.
How did he find out I had an OnlyFans account? It’s quite simple, really. I asked to borrow his computer a few months ago and left my profile in a background browsertab. It was the day I learned Hell hath no fury like an overprotective stepfather scorned.
After shouting and screaming at me for what felt like days on end—but was probably just ten or twenty minutes—he expressly forbade me from logging on again, going as far as swearing to save a shortcut to my OnlyFans profile to his home screen so he could keep tabs on my online activity.
Thankfully, Dallas Johnson is a man of his word. Every day he checks. Every day he calls when he knows I’m doing a live stream. Every day he scolds me for it. And, best of all, every day I shoot an endless load as he lectures me on internet safety, knowing exactly what I’m doing on the other end of the phone. Then, when he comes home, he acts like nothing happened.
Phase one of my master plan? Flawless.
I met Dallas officially when I was eighteen, but I’ve been in love with him since I was a kid. My piece of shit mother and I have lived in the same trailer park as him most of my life. Dallas and I saw each other in passing all the time, but it wasn’t until Dad died and Mom started looking for a replacement husband that we were finally introduced. She went through several men before finding him, cheating on all of them with the next man in her eye line. He was just as beautiful up close as he was from afar.
Until then I’d only seen him from afar, watching him at night like I was seeking out shooting stars. Creating constellations of his cock as I peered through his bedroom window.
There’s an old tree behind his trailer house, directly beside the window. God help me if he ever finds out, but I used to climb and sit on one of the limbs, peeping into his room. I would have simply stood outside and peered in, but his trailer is jacked-up higher than the rest in the lot, and I’m barely over five feet. He always kept his window blinds angled upward, so I would catch glimpses of him walking around his room in nothing more than a pair of underwear. Thankfully, Dallas never caught me, but I’ve caught him a few times. His bed obstructed most of the view, but at night, I could see him sitting up, his arm pumping furiously as porn played on his flatscreen. It was hard to see the television from my perch, but I caught a reflection of the screen in the mirror over his dresser a few weeks after I started stalking him, and was heartbroken to find it was heterosexual in nature.
I’m fully aware my actions were—and still are, quite frankly—predatory in nature, but I was thirteen, and we all make stupid choices when puberty comes into play. I don’t have an excuse for my present-day behavior, other than I’m hopelessly, madly, recklessly in love with my stepfather, and I’ve lost every ounce of self-control.
I finally learned his name a few weeks after my thirteenth birthday when I started stealing his mail. I always put the important stuff back, but I kept the junk mail in a small lockbox under my bed. It felt good to have something of his to hold onto when I needed a security blanket. Growing up with my mom, I held onto them a lot, picturing how pretty his smile would be if I just worked up the courage to return his mail to him, cursing the United States Postal Service with a sassy swish of my hips. When I was younger, it was my go-to spank-bank scenario. I replayed it endlessly, thinking of all the different ways the scene could unfold.
Thank God it never played out in real life, because then my Dallas would no longer be my Dallas, he would be a monster. I was thirteen for God’s sake.
The reminder chimes on my phone, and my heart races in my chest.
Showtime, Synergy.
My mom is gone for the day, doing fuck knows what. I wish she’d stay gone forever. Like my ex-boyfriend Tatum used to say, I hope she cries, hope she dies, because she’s one of the nastiest human beings this side of the panhandle. She knew how much I liked Dallas, and she stole him for herself. We both know she’d be digging her own marital grave if she lets the secret slip, but that doesn’t stop her from lording it over me like a trump card. I know one day she’ll follow throughwith her threats of exposing my feelings for him. When she does, he’ll be disgusted with me, and then he’ll never speak to me again. Considering he’s my best friend, the loss will be monumental. Catastrophic. The end of the world as I know it.
But that day isn’t today.
No, today is a good day, because I’m skipping class just to hear his frustrated voice as I stroke myself to completion. I know I should put more effort into my career as a college student, because Dallas works his fingers to the bone in an unbearably warm machine shop to pay my tuition, but our mid-morning chats are my favorite part of the day.
Dallas welds oilfield equipment together in the dead of summer. In Texas, that means triple-digit temperatures for twelve hours a day. I wish I had enough money to take care of him the way he takes care of me, just so he doesn’t have to risk having a heatstroke every time he clocks in. So, yeah, I should really take my schoolwork more seriously, but how can I when I can’t take my mind off him for more than five minutes at a time? Some might call it obsession, but I don’t care how terrible my behavior is. Dallas is the man I love. The man I want to spend the rest of my life with. There’s just one unnecessary obstacle standing in the way.
Mom.
He can claim his undying love for my horrible mother all he wants, we both know the only reason he stays with her is because of me. After I moved out of our family home and into the apartment I shared with my four ex-boyfriends, Dallas left too. The day I returned, so did he. Funny how that worked out.
Either way, with his protective papa-bear persona, I know one day, curiosity will get the better of Dallas Johnson, and when it does, Daddy’s going to get an eyeful. The day he subscribes, claiming it’s to ensure I’m not giving out personal or confidential information to would-be predators, he’ll finally see me. Every inch of me. And yeah, maybe there are just five-point-five of them, but they’re a really pretty five-point-five. I should probably be embarrassed, because it’s not really that big, but I know Dallas would never laugh at me or make me feel inadequate.
My followers seem to love it, though. They tell me over and over how cute it is. There are a little over one-hundred of them, even though I’m not really sure how they found me. My profile was never meant as a means of income. I didn’t set up this account to make men moan as they furiously stroke their cocks, though I’m not bothered when they do. I set it up to plant the seed. To watch anxiety grow in Dallas until he finally reaches his breaking point and pays my unnecessarily high monthly subscription fee of forty bucks. Again, I didn’tsign up to get fans, I signed up for Daddy. The fact that over a hundred men like my cock enough to repeatedly toss far too much money my way definitely makes me worry less about my size.
I set my laptop on the chair and click the button to start my live stream. Once I’m online, I bend down and smile into my laptop camera, imagining Dallas’ face. I take a step back and palm my cock through my pajamas, tugging until it’s fully hard. Pulling my hand away, I look at the screen. Fuck. It’s tenting in my pink pajamas to the point I’m worried it’ll rip a hole in the fabric.
I wish Dallas would fucking call already. I need to hear him. Need him to hear me. I hook my thumbs into my underwear and pajamas, and push them down to my ankles. I stare at my dick, then at the camera, picturing Dallas as I arch an eyebrow.
When he finally subscribes, I wonder how long it will take him to realize this is all because of him. I don’t try to hide or mute my feelings in my posts. I’m not professing my undying love or anything, but I’ve said “Daddy” enough times to get the point across. He’s always been Daddy.
Taking a seat on my bed, I grab my phone and wait, slowly stroking myself to stay hard until he clocks out for lunch and calls me, just like he always does every day.
My hand works my five-and-a-half-inch shaft with precision, my wrist curling on each upstroke. I’m staring into the camera like I’m staring into his eyes, silently pleading.
“Daddy,” I whisper, lifting my legs onto the bed. From my angle at the edge, I’m on full display, so I lie back and scoot down, using the edge of the mattress as makeshift stirrups, my cheeks spreading wide, revealing my hole. I suck my finger to get it slick, then trace a ring around my entrance. “Oh, fuck. Daddy, please.”
As expected, my phone vibrates two minutes after the hour, and I stare into my laptop’s camera, grinning. I bet he’s gonna be real mad. I can’t wait. Grabbing a few pillows for support, I wedge them behind my back until I’m slightly seated, and stare into the camera while I answer the call.
“Hey, Daddy,” I rasp. “How’s work?”
