Whiskey and Asphalt: A Daughter’s Descent in the Big AppleI’m Chloe, 22, and this is the fucked-up, booze-drenched saga of how my dad, Vincent Russo, and I turned New York City—this sprawling, neon-lit beast of concrete and cash—into our own twisted empire of lust and chaos. He was a washed-up businessman, a drunk who’d lost everything but me, and I was the spark that lit his wreckage on fire. It’s wild, messy, and goddamn reckless, and I’m spilling every slurred, sweaty detail because he’s my ruin, and I’m his last shot.Dad was 48 when it all went to hell, a once-sharp dealmaker now a stumbling mess—black hair slicked with sweat and desperation, bloodshot gray eyes, and a frame gone soft but still broad from years of boardrooms—big hands shaky from whiskey, an ass sagging in wrinkled suits. Mom fucked off with a hedge fund prick when I was 10, leaving us in a crumbling penthouse on the Upper East Side, the last relic of Dad’s glory days. He’d raised me on slurred rants and broken promises, drowning in bottles while I ran wild through NYC’s veins—until that wildness turned on him.It kicked off last winter, when I’d bailed on a shitty waitressing gig in Brooklyn and crashed back home, a hurricane of rage and need. The city was a frozen hell—snow choking the streets, taxis honking, drunks howling—and I was wired, pacing the penthouse in a ripped tank and thong, chugging vodka from Dad’s stash. He staggered in from some bar, tie gone, suit soaked with snow and bourbon, reeking like a distillery. He dropped his briefcase—empty, just for show—and glared at me, sprawled on the leather couch, my tits half-out, legs wide.“You’re a fucking trainwreck, Chloe,” he slurred, voice thick as he snatched the bottle, spilling half on the rug as he drank. I smirked, stretching so my tank hiked up, flashing my navel piercing and the edge of my pussy. His eyes locked on, glassy but burning, and I saw it—his breath hitched, his hand twitched. My cunt pulsed, and I knew I’d hooked him.“Least I ain’t a has-been,” I fired back, swinging my legs over the armrest, my thong slipping. He lurched closer, swaying, and I smelled him—liquor, smoke, defeat. “You’re begging for it,” he mumbled, his hand brushing my thigh, and the room tilted, a drunk’s fever dream igniting.That was the first shot fired. The next month, I poured fuel on it. I’d strut around in his old dress shirts, unbuttoned, my ass bare as I raided the fridge, daring him to crack. He’d stumble in late, catching me bent over the counter, skirt up, and I’d hear his ragged grunt, his bottle clinking as he fought it. We’d ride the subway home from his rare gigs, me pressed against him in the crush, grinding slow, feeling his cock stiffen through his pants. I’d catch him staring—wasted, ravenous—and I’d push, needing to see him fall.Then came the night NYC’s chaos broke us wide open.A blizzard slammed Manhattan—winds screaming, power flickering, Wall Street a ghost town. I was in the penthouse, in a sheer cami and panties, smoking a joint by the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city a blur of snow and lights below. Dad crashed in, soaked and shitfaced, suit torn from some bar fight, bottle of Jack dangling. He stumbled to me, eyes wild, and stopped, staring—my cami slipping, my nipples hard, my pussy outlined in the glow.“Chloe,” he rasped, voice a drunk’s growl, “what the fuck are you doing?” He swayed closer, and I flicked the joint away, stepping into him, my hand brushing his crotch—hard, even through the whiskey haze. “Waiting for you,” I purred, and he snapped—grabbing me, kissing me sloppy and fierce, his tongue a mess of bourbon and need.I moaned, tearing his jacket off, buttons popping as I tasted him—liquor, blood, ruin. He shoved me against the window, glass cold on my back, and ripped my cami off, my tits bouncing free—round, nipples stiff in the chill. “Fuck, Chloe,” he slurred, fumbling his pants down, his cock lurching out—thick, veiny, leaking despite the booze. I yanked my panties off, spreading my legs, my cunt dripping, and he dove in, licking me—wet, clumsy, desperate—sucking my clit as I screamed, “Oh shit, Dad, yes!” My hands yanked his hair, my hips bucking, and I came fast, soaking his face as the storm raged outside.“Gonna fuck you,” he grunted, staggering up, and I pulled him in. “Do it, drunk,” I begged, and he thrust in, sloppy but deep, my tight pussy stretching as I yelled, “You’re huge!” He pounded me against the glass, the city a smear below, my tits bouncing wild as he growled, “You’re mine, you little bitch.” I locked my legs around him, meeting every sloppy thrust, the blizzard’s howl drowning my screams— horns blaring, wind shrieking, my chaos matching his.He spun me, bending me over the couch, my hands gripping the leather as he slammed back in, spanking my ass red, his aim off but brutal. “Harder, you sloppy fuck,” I howled, and he grabbed my throat, choking me as he railed me, my pussy dripping onto the floor, the room spinning with his drunk rhythm. I came again, my cunt pulsing, and he roared, “Gonna cum,” unloading thick cum deep inside me, filling me as I milked him, the world a blur of snow and sin.That night was our blackout plunge. New York City became our drunken battleground, a storm of asphalt and flesh. Days later, we fucked in a Times Square alley—tourists screaming, lights flashing—me bent over a dumpster, him taking my ass—yeah, I begged for it, his belt in my mouth after he greased me with spilled beer. He pounded me, trash rattling, his slurs low as he came, my ass clenching him dry while horns blared and some cabbie yelled.Next, we hit a Midtown dive bar after closing—bottles smashed, stools toppled. I tied him to a barstool with his tie, blindfolded him with my scarf, and edged him—sucking his cock slow, teasing his balls with a broken glass rim—until he was thrashing, slurring, “Fuck me, Chloe, now!” I climbed him, riding him hard, the stool wobbling, glass crunching as he exploded inside me, my cum dripping down his thighs, the bar’s stink thick around us.The chaos spiked during a Wall Street protest—suits clashing with anarchists, tear gas choking the air. We slipped into a trashed office tower, 40 floors up, the city burning below. He pinned me to a shattered desk, tearing my fishnets, and ate my pussy—tongue deep, fingers sloppy in my ass—until I was sobbing, “Fuck me, Dad, please!” He did, lifting me, slamming me against a cracked window, my legs around his neck as he fucked me standing, sirens wailing, glass trembling. I came so hard I squirted, soaking his suit, and he pulled out, cumming on my tits, the mess dripping as we panted, wild and wasted.One deranged night, we crashed a Soho loft party—trust fund brats, coke lines, techno blasting. I dragged him to the fire escape, stripping to my thong, and tied his wrists with a power cord from the DJ booth. I edged him—rubbing my pussy on his cock, teasing his ass with a champagne flute—until he was a slurring wreck, yelling, “Fuck me, you lunatic!” I straddled him, fucking him raw, the escape shaking, party lights strobing as he came inside me, my screams lost in the bass, our sweat mixing with spilled Moët.The wildest shit hit during a subway breakdown—trains stalled, tunnels dark, commuters rioting. We broke into a maintenance closet, the air thick with oil and piss. I blindfolded him with my bandana, tied him to a pipe with his belt, and tortured him—sucking his cock, buzzing his nipples with a stolen flashlight—until he was a growling mess, slurring, “Fuck me, Chloe, end this!” I mounted him, riding him hard, the pipe rattling, rats scurrying as he came, filling me, my orgasm ripping through me, our cries bouncing off the concrete.Days later, we hit Central Park at 3 a.m.—snow falling, drunks stumbling, cops circling. I bent over a frozen bench, skirt up, and he fucked me from behind, his hands bruising my hips, the wind biting as he spanked me, pulled my hair. I came, my pussy gushing, his cum hot inside me as we collapsed, the city’s pulse pounding in our ears, snow sticking to our skin.The peak came during a blackout on the Brooklyn Bridge—cars stalled, horns blaring, wind tearing through. I tied his wrists to the railing with my scarf, blindfolded him with my shirt, and edged him—jerking his cock, licking his ass—until he was raging, “Fuck me, you crazy bitch!” I climbed him, fucking him mid-span, the bridge swaying, lights flickering back on as he came, my cum dripping down the cables, the city a chaos of sound and fury below, our screams swallowed by the storm.We knew it was fucked—NYC’s suits, cops, anyone would bury us if they caught on. His old business pals would shun him, the tabloids would feast. But in this whiskey-and-asphalt hell—his cock, his slurs, his breaking—he was my descent, my drunk king. Even now, he’s in the penthouse, bottle in hand, hard as fuck, waiting for me to storm in and wreck him again. And I will, because he’s my chaos, and this city’s ours to drown in.