False Advertising: Part One

Parts:

Melissa knew exactly what she was doing with her body. Every morning, she picked out the sluttiest outfit she could get away with: a miniskirt that barely hid her ass, a crop top stretched tight over her tits, just enough stomach showing to make every guy on campus stare. She strutted across campus like she owned the place, hips swinging, tits bouncing, watching as every loser in sight tried to hide the boner in his jeans. She loved it. She was a walking hard-on, and she knew it.

She got off on the attention. Every stare, every guy drooling over her legs, every pervert trying to see up her skirt. She’d smirk, knowing they were all picturing her naked, desperate to see what was under the tiny scrap of fabric. It was her way of flipping off her uptight parents, who’d tried to lock up her pussy like it was some family heirloom. Now she was in college, and her body was a giant middle finger to all of them.

By the time she got to the student center, her nipples were poking through her crop top, hard enough for everyone to see. Maybe it was the cold, but mostly it was the thrill of knowing every guy in the place was thinking about fucking her. She could make any dick in the room twitch just by smiling or flashing a bit of skin. She was in charge, and she loved it.

Ryan was already there, sprawled on the worn couch with that confident smirk he always wore. His eyes locked onto her the moment she walked in, tracking her movement as she approached the group. She knew he wanted her—he’d made that abundantly clear over the past few weeks with increasingly bold propositions. But Melissa enjoyed the game too much to give in easily.

“Look who finally showed up,” Ryan said, his gaze dropping to her chest without shame. “Looking good, Mel.”

She laughed, tossing her long hair over her shoulder. “I always look good, Ryan. Try to keep up.”

The group laughed, but Ryan’s eyes were glued to her tits. Melissa perched on the arm of a chair, crossing her legs so her skirt rode up even higher, practically flashing her pussy. She could feel herself getting wet—not for Ryan, but for the way she could make him squirm. She got off on the control, on knowing she could make any guy in the room ache just by sitting there.

She spent the next hour teasing everyone, letting her hand rest on Ryan’s shoulder, leaning forward so her tits nearly spilled out. She watched his hands clench, saw the hard-on straining his jeans. Good. Let him suffer. Let him sit there with his balls turning blue while she pretended not to notice.

When Jenna brought up a party that weekend, Melissa was already thinking about what kind of slutty outfit she could wear to make every guy lose his mind. She winked at Ryan, then ignored him and started flirting with another guy, just to make him stew.

The group eventually dispersed, people heading off to afternoon classes or the library. Melissa grabbed her bag, ready to leave, when Ryan’s hand caught her wrist.

“Hold up,” he said, his voice lower than before. “I need to talk to you.”

She raised an eyebrow but didn’t pull away. “What’s up?”

He waited until the others were out of earshot, then stepped closer, backing her subtly toward the wall. “What the fuck is your game, Melissa?”

“Game?” She kept her voice light, but her heart was hammering now. This was different. More intense.

“You know exactly what I mean.” His jaw was set, his dark eyes burning. “You dress like a fucking pornstar, you touch me, you flirt, you bend over in front of me like you want me to bend you over and fuck you right there—and then when I actually try to make a move, you shut me down like I’m some kind of creep.”

Melissa felt a flush of anger mixed with something else—something that made her pussy clench. “Maybe I’m just being friendly, Ryan. Did you ever think of that?”

“Bullshit.” He moved closer, his broad shoulders blocking her view of the rest of the room. “You’re a cocktease. You get off on making guys hard and then leaving them with blue balls.”

“Fuck you,” she spat, trying to push past him. “I don’t owe you shit just because I dress how I want.”

He grabbed her arm, squeezing hard enough to make her gasp. “You think you can walk around like some dumb slut and not get what’s coming to you?”

Before she could say anything, he shoved his body against hers. She felt his cock, rock hard through his jeans, grinding into her thigh. The roughness, the way he just took what he wanted, made her pussy clench with a mix of fear and filthy excitement.

“Feel that?” Ryan’s breath was hot against her ear, his voice a crude whisper. “That’s what you do to me every fucking day. And you know what? You’re going to pay for it.”

Her brain told her to fight back, to knee him in the balls, to scream. But her body was a traitor. Her nipples were like bullets, her panties soaked through, and some sick part of her wanted him to call her a slut, to shove his cock against her and make her pay for teasing him.

She found her voice, forcing it to sound defiant even as her legs trembled. “You’re a pathetic loser, Ryan. Let go of me.”

For a moment, she thought he might not. His grip tightened, his eyes searched her face, and she saw something dangerous flickering there. Then he released her with a rough shove that sent her stumbling.

“We’ll see who’s pathetic,” he said, his voice cold now. “Enjoy your little power trip while it lasts.”

Melissa grabbed her bag and practically ran from the student center, her heart pounding, her skin flushed. She didn’t stop until she reached her apartment, slamming the door behind her and leaning against it, breathing hard.

What the fuck was wrong with her? Why did her pussy get wet when she should have been scared? She was pissed, she was scared, but she was also so turned on it made her want to puke.

Her phone buzzed in her bag. She pulled it out, expecting a text from Jenna or another friend. Instead, she saw an email notification from an unfamiliar address with the subject line: “Legal Notice - Melissa Crawford.”

Her stomach dropped. With shaking fingers, she opened it.

The email was formal, clinical even, stating that Ryan Mitchell had filed a civil lawsuit against her for “intentional infliction of emotional distress, false advertising of sexual availability, and fraudulent inducement.” The words swam before her eyes, ridiculous and terrifying in equal measure.

Attached were photos. She clicked on the first one and felt her blood run cold.

It was from a party last semester—her, drunk and squatting in just lace panties and heels, flipping off the camera with one hand and holding a beer in the other. Her tits were spilling out of a bra that barely covered anything, and the photo looked like something straight out of a cheap porn site.

There were more. Dozens more. All the drunk, slutty photos she’d forgotten about, now lined up like proof that she was begging for cock. Proof that she was a whore who wanted it.

Melissa felt tears prickling her eyes, but they were tears of rage as much as fear. How dare he? How fucking dare he turn her sexuality against her like this?

She threw her phone onto her bed and paced her small room, her mind racing. This couldn’t be real. This couldn’t be legal. But even as she tried to rationalize it away, she knew the damage was done. Ryan had receipts. He had photos. And he was apparently willing to drag her through court to punish her for rejecting him.

By sunset, Melissa had cried, screamed, and worn herself out. But lying alone in bed, her pussy didn’t care about her problems. It wanted what it wanted, and it wasn’t going to let her forget it.

She grabbed her laptop and went straight to the filthy porn sites she kept hidden in private tabs. The kind of sites she’d never admit to watching, the kind that made her pussy drip and her stomach twist with shame.

Her hand slipped beneath her panties as the first video loaded—a young woman on her knees, looking up at an older man who gripped her hair and called her his “little girl.” Melissa’s fingers found her clit, already swollen and aching.

“That’s it, baby girl,” the man on screen growled. “Show Daddy what a good little slut you are.”

Melissa fingered herself hard, hips jerking as she pictured her dad’s hands all over her, his voice calling her a filthy little slut, telling her she needed to be punished. The more wrong it felt, the wetter she got, her fingers moving faster and faster.

She came, hard, biting her lip to keep from screaming, her whole body shaking as she imagined Daddy’s cock inside her, Daddy telling her she was his good little whore. When it was over, she lay there panting, the porn still playing, feeling sick and satisfied at the same time.

This was her secret. Her dirty, fucked-up addiction. Nobody could ever know how much she needed it.

But as she closed the laptop and stared at the ceiling, a cold dread settled over her. Ryan’s lawsuit. The photos. If this went to trial, if people started digging into her life…

What other secrets might come to light?

***

Three days later, Melissa was right back where she started—alone in her dark room, laptop open, face flushed as she scrolled through the filthiest porn she could find. Her fingers played with her thighs, teasing herself while she clicked on a new video. The guy in it looked way too much like her dad.

She knew she shouldn’t. It was fucked up. But lately, she couldn’t stop thinking about her dad—his arms, his voice, the way he sometimes looked at her. It was wrong, disgusting, but her pussy didn’t care. Her fingers slipped into her panties anyway.

The man on screen gripped the younger woman’s hair, pulling her head back to expose her throat. “Such a dirty girl,” he growled. “What would people think if they knew what a little slut you are for Daddy’s cock?”

Melissa’s breath caught. Her fingers found her clit, already soaked, and she started rubbing. She closed her eyes and let herself imagine it was Derek, not some random guy—her dad’s hands, his voice, his body pinning her to the wall, calling her a bad little slut who needed to be punished.

She arched off the bed, mouth open, rubbing herself harder as she pictured her dad’s rough hands and Ryan’s angry voice, both of them using her like the slut she was. The more wrong it felt, the faster her fingers moved.

Her phone’s shrill ring shattered the moment. Melissa jerked, her eyes flying open, her hand stilling between her legs. She grabbed the phone, ready to silence it, then froze when she saw the number.

Unknown caller.

She almost didn’t answer. But something made her swipe to accept, bringing the phone to her ear with her free hand still resting on her mound. “Hello?”

“Is this Melissa Crawford?” A woman’s voice, professional and detached.

“Who’s asking?”

“I’m Rachel Winters from Channel Seven News. We’re running a story on the lawsuit filed against you by Ryan Mitchell, and we’d love to get your side of—”

Melissa hung up before the bitch could finish. Her heart was pounding, pussy instantly dry. How the fuck did the news get this? It had only been three days since the lawsuit.

Her phone buzzed again. Another unknown number. Then another. And another. Text messages started flooding in, her notifications pinging in rapid succession.

With trembling hands, she opened her browser and typed her name into the search bar.

The results made her stomach heave.

“LOCAL WOMAN SUED FOR ‘SEXUAL FALSE ADVERTISING’” read one headline.

"DOES THIS SLUT DESERVE TO BE RAPED? CONTROVERSIAL LAWSUIT DIVIDES INTERNET," screamed another, her party photo front and center, tits and ass on display for the world.

“‘SHE’LL ONLY FUCK HER DADDY’ - SHOCKING DETAILS EMERGE IN SEXUAL HARASSMENT CASE”

That last one made her blood run cold. She clicked on it, her vision narrowing as she read the article. Anonymous sources—she knew it had to be Jenna, that backstabbing cunt—had revealed details about Melissa’s “extensive history” of viewing father-daughter pornography, her online searches for “daddy dom” content, and screenshots of forum posts discussing taboo paternal fantasies.

They printed everything. Every filthy, humiliating detail about what she jerked off to, all out in the open, making her look like some kind of incest freak.

Her phone rang again. This time, it was a saved contact: Derek.

Melissa stared at the screen, her father’s name glowing accusingly. He’d seen the articles. He had to have seen them. Everyone had seen them.

She couldn’t answer. With a shaking hand, she accepted the call.

“Dad,” she said, her voice cracking.

“Melissa.” Derek’s voice was tight, strained in a way she’d never heard before. “I just saw the news.”

“It’s not what it looks like,” she said quickly, the lie tasting bitter on her tongue. “They’re twisting everything. That guy is suing me because I wouldn’t sleep with him, and now he’s making up all this shit—”

“Are they making up the photos?”

She fell silent. There was no denying those.

“Melissa,” Derek continued, and now there was something else in his voice—something heavier. “They’re saying you… They’re saying you watch porn about fathers and daughters.”

Her face burned. Talking about this with anyone would have been bad, but hearing her dad say it made her want to die. And still, her pussy throbbed, sick and hungry for more.

“That’s private,” she whispered. “What I watch online is nobody’s fucking business.”

“I’m your father. It’s my business when they’re dragging you through the mud on national television.” He paused, and she could hear him breathing, heavy and deliberate. “Is it true? Do you… Do you fantasize about that sort of thing?”

Melissa’s hand twitched on her stomach. Her pussy pulsed, wet and needy, just from hearing her dad ask about her sick fantasies, his voice thick with something that wasn’t just concern.

“What if I do?” she shot back, defensive anger mixing with her shame. “It’s fantasy. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“Doesn’t it?” The question hung in the air, loaded with implications neither of them wanted to address directly.

She was breathing hard, nipples stiff under her shirt. This was fucked up. She shouldn’t be talking about this with her dad, shouldn’t be getting off on the humiliation, but her body didn’t care. The more wrong it got, the hotter she felt.

“Dad, I didn’t ask for this,” she said, her voice smaller now. “I didn’t ask to be sued, to have my private life exposed, to have every fucking news outlet calling me a slut who deserves to be raped.”

“I know you didn’t, sweetheart.” His voice softened, but the tension remained. “I just… I need to understand what’s happening. The things they’re saying about you, about what you want…”

“They’re saying I led him on,” Melissa interrupted, needing to redirect before this conversation went somewhere irreversible. “They’re saying I dressed provocatively and flirted, so I was ‘advertising’ sex and then ‘defrauded’ him by not delivering. It’s insane.”

“But you did dress that way. You did flirt.”

“So fucking what?” Her anger flared hot again. “That doesn’t mean I owe anyone my body. That doesn’t mean I consent to anything.”

Derek was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke again, his voice was rough. “No. It doesn’t. But Melissa… the things in those articles, about your fantasies… do they have anything to do with… us?”

There it was. The question she’d been dreading and, sickeningly, anticipating. Her thighs pressed together involuntarily, her pussy clenching at the direct confrontation of the taboo.

“No,” she lied, her voice barely above a whisper. “It’s just fantasy. It’s not about you.”

But they both knew she was lying. The silence stretched between them, thick with things that couldn’t be said, desires that couldn’t be acknowledged.

“I should go,” Derek finally said. “I’m coming home next week. We need to talk about getting you a lawyer.”

“Okay,” Melissa managed.

“And Melissa?” His voice dropped lower. “Be careful what you put online. People are watching now.”

The call ended. Melissa stared at her phone, body burning, panties soaked, heart pounding. It was the most humiliating thing that had ever happened to her—and the hottest.

What the fuck was wrong with her?

Her phone wouldn’t stop buzzing. Message after message: strangers calling her a cocktease, a whore, saying she deserved to be gangbanged. Dudes sent dick pics, promising to fuck her like the slut she was. Even women called her a disgrace, a slut making all girls look bad.

The abuse didn’t stop. It was like being fucked by the whole internet, and somehow, it made her even wetter. She shouldn’t want this. She shouldn’t be picturing all those threats coming true. But her pussy didn’t care about shoulds.

By the time she finally put the phone down, Melissa felt empty. The lawsuit was real. The scandal was real. She’d gone from cocktease queen to public slut in days, her dirtiest secrets now ammo for every asshole who wanted to take her down.

She opened her laptop again, not to the forbidden sites this time, but to search for lawyers who handled sexual harassment cases. The irony wasn’t lost on her—she was being accused of sexually harassing Ryan by existing in a body she dressed provocatively.

As she clicked through law firm websites, reading about defamation and civil suits and courtroom procedures, a cold certainty settled in her gut. This was going to trial. Ryan wasn’t going to back down, and the media circus had made it impossible for either of them to quietly settle.

She was going to have to stand in a courtroom and defend her right to dress how she wanted, to flirt without obligation, to have private sexual fantasies without them being used as evidence of her guilt.

And somehow, even with everything falling apart, the idea of being dragged into court, called a slut and a tease in front of everyone, made her pussy throb with sick excitement.

Melissa shut her laptop and lay back, staring at the ceiling as the tears finally came. She was fucked up. She had to be. Normal girls didn’t get off on being humiliated. Normal girls didn’t finger themselves to daddy porn while the world called them whores.

But maybe she’d never been normal. Maybe that was the whole fucking problem.

Her phone buzzed one more time. She almost ignored it, but glanced at the screen.

Another headline: “TRIAL DATE SET FOR ‘DADDY’S GIRL’ LAWSUIT.”

Three months. She had three months before her entire life would be laid bare in court.

Three months to prepare for a trial that would either vindicate her or destroy her completely.

Three months to figure out why the thought of being ruined or vindicated made her pussy drip.